Hello My Old Heart
by AndSoIWrite
Summary: The older boy is sick, coughing in a way that makes Bobby cringe and the toddler has his fist wrapped in his brother's shirt. And even though there is snow on the ground, neither one is wearing shoes. Bobby has never seen a sorrier sight. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** This came out of a Daddy Drabble I've been fussing with. Hope y'all like it, it's a little different than what I usually do.

* * *

 **Hello my old heart  
** **It's been so long  
** **Since I've given you away.  
** **And every day I add another stone  
** **To the walls I built around you  
** **To keep you safe.  
** **"Hello My Old Heart" –The Oh Hellos**

Bobby Singer led a simple life. Well, simple for a Hunter. He got up, checked his answering machine in the kitchen, turned up the volume on the police scanner, and then made himself a cup of coffee. After he walked to the end of the driveway in his robe, he'd poor over the newspaper because Bobby liked to keep a knowledge of what was happening in the world. Made him feel better prepared, even for the stuff that didn't get reported on.

Then he'd get dressed and park himself at the kitchen table where he would flip through pages of old lore until his fingers grew soft from the dust. Around midday, he'd stand and stretch, listening to the knobs of his spine crackle against the cold South Dakota air. The afternoons were reserved for tinkering on cars because Hunting be damned, he wasn't about to let any monsters get between him and automobiles. Bobby lived and breathed the heaps of metals; he had since he was a young boy.

Sure he still participated in Hunts – had to keep himself spry somehow – but it was more of a once a week kind of thing. He had connections to maintain, covers to keep up for the rest of the fulltime Hunters out there. Which was why he wasn't surprised when Pastor Jim had called him a few days ago to warn him that he'd sent a new Hunter Bobby's way.

The guy's name was John Winchester and his wife had been killed by God knows what. Jim hadn't said much more but then again, he rarely did. Hunters weren't usually chatty fellows.

So Bobby wasn't surprised when he had just sat down to a healthy helping of venison stew and a knocking came on the door.

"Showtime," he grumbled to himself, more annoyed that his meal had been interrupted than anything else. He figured he'd give the guy the details, load him up with weapons, and let him stay the night. New Hunters never stuck around for long, not once he put a silver knife in their hand and silver bullets in their gun. Half of them got themselves killed but Bobby had stopped being sentimental a long time ago. Ever since…well, ever since he had started living alone.

He opened the door mid knock and came face to face with a tall, dark-haired man who obviously hadn't shaved or slept in days. His cheekbones were gaunt, the skin stretched tight and almost an ashen gray. The dude looked positively haunted. And not in the way Bobby was used to.

"Bobby Singer?" the man said, each syllable was pushed out of his mouth by exhaustion.

"Yeah. You John Winchester?" John nodded and almost fell over. "You injured or something?" Bobby asked suspiciously. He wasn't one to take on these kinds of surprises, he preferred to be decently notified if someone was coming to him bleeding out or whatnot.

"Nah man," John Winchester said, shifting slightly and tugging at something behind him. "My kids is sick. Been up with him for the past two days. Was on a Hunt before that."

But Bobby's mind had gotten snagged on the word kid and that was when a young boy stepped out of his father's shadow. John pushed him gently forward until he was standing before Bobby.

He had sandy brown hair and was thin and lanky, wearing sweatpants that showed his ankles and socks that were obviously too big because they were six kinds of wrinkled. He had his head bowed to his chest but Bobby could hear his labored breathing, interrupted every few seconds by a loud sniffle.

Pastor Jim hadn't said a single word about a kid.

"Shit," Bobby said. He swiped his baseball cap off his head and scratched the matted hair underneath. The kid flinched at the word but didn't lift his face.

"You got a name?" Bobby said eventually after John failed to say anything else. The guy kept turning around and gazing back at his car, but he snapped back around when the kid didn't answer.

"Go ahead," John said. "Answer the man."

"Yes, sir," came a voice and it wasn't small or frightened like Bobby had expected, but strong and clear. "It's Dean, sir." He dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his face and then lifted his head, showing off a pair of emerald green eyes that shook something loose inside of Bobby. A corner of his heart began to thaw at the open, vulnerable expression of the boy and the way his eyes were glassed over with fever, his cheeks a rosy, unhealthy red. He looked miserable.

"Best come inside," Bobby said, because he couldn't believe a child was standing at his door in March with no shows and yet he wasn't about to turn away a sick kid. The little boy – Dean – turned to his father.

"I have to get Sammy," he said.

"Go on then," John said. "Sorry," he said, turning back to Bobby. "But I gotta take a piss. Do you mind?"

"Sure," Bobby. "Second door on the right. Don't touch anything!" he called back as the other man stalked past him into the house. Dean was already headed down the porch stairs, holding on the railing and trying to avoid the last of the melting snow at the same time. Bobby followed him out into the yard.

"Nice car," he said once he got a good look at the Impala. It was in better condition than the boy who tugged open the backseat door, the paint fresh and unchipped, the tires hardly worn at all. Bobby stayed back a bit, not wanting to get too close to the kid because…well, Bobby didn't much care for children. He was only out there to make sure the boy didn't keel over before he made it into the house.

"Thanks," Dean said, voice muffled from where his head was stuck in the car. He appeared to be looking for something, mumbling to himself. "Hold still, Sammy, I have to – hold still!" Bobby figured he was searching for an action figure or even a stuffed animal.

"Hurry up," he said gruffly. "I ain't got all day."

"Yessir," Dean said, pulling back for the car, holding the end of something that was way too big to be a toy. As Dean backed away from the door, something large – something very alive - followed him.

"Dee?" It was a toddler, a pipsqueak of a kid with large hazel eyes and shaggy hair that looked as if it had been trimmed by a pair of exceptionally blunt scissors. Which it probably had.

"Shh, Sammy," Dean said, letting the boy past him and then going back into the car, this time pulling out a duffel bag the size of the toddler's body.

"Dee!" the little boy whined and wrapped one pudgy hand into the fabric of his older brother's oversized tee-shirt. His own footie pajamas were thin and rustled against his body when the South Dakota wind brushed by. Sammy pushed himself against his brother, sticking his free thumb into his mouth. Dean's hand automatically went around the little kid.

"This is Sam," Dean said. "He's my brother."

"I see that," Bobby said, still staring. Damn Pastor Jim had said nothing about one kid, let alone two of the monsters. He doubted the little one was even potty-trained.

"Dee, cold," Sam whined, turning his face away from the strange man in front of him.

"I know," Dean said and then coughed, reminding Bobby that one of them, if not both, was sick.

"Let's go," Bobby said, turning on his heel, seething on the inside at the colossal mess this night had become. He liked his life as predictable as he could make it. What the hell was he supposed to do with two children in his house? It sure wasn't toddler-proof, that he knew. The little one would probably off himself by accident on all the knives laying around.

But it turned out he didn't have to worry about little Sam running around touching things he wasn't supposed to. The child didn't move from Dean's side. In fact, the entire way into the house and through to the living room, he kept a firm grasp on Dean's shirt while the older boy lugged the duffel at his side. If Bobby had been more sentimental, he would have offered to help carry it. But he was not sentimental. Sam sat down on the ground when Dean told him to and stopped whining when Dean told him to and as far as Bobby could tell in the next ten minutes, did everything his older brother told him to. Bobby had never quite seen anything like that, although he didn't hang out with kids in his free time so he didn't think much of it at the time.

"Pastor Jim didn't say nothing about you bringing kids," Bobby accused John. They were standing in the dingy kitchen, a space that Bobby tried to avoid as much as possible because this is where Karen had liked to spend her time. The boys were still in the living room, sitting on the floor because the couch was littered with old journals and books that Bobby had placed strategically for an upcoming Hunt.

John shrugged.

"Not my fault. He knows I have 'em."

"What are you doing hauling two kids around, hunting no less?"

"None of your business," John snapped and Bobby raised his eyebrows.

"Yer in my house, it damn well just became my business. You can fill me in or you can get the hell out of here."

The two men glared at each other for a moment, the silence between them interrupted only by Dean's hacking from the other room. John closed his eyes at the sound.

"He's got something bad," the father said, his voice lower than it had been a second ago. "I couldn't keep him on the road. Can he stay with you until he's stronger?"

"What about the little one?" Bobby asked. "He gonna cause trouble? I ain't got time for infants."

"Sammy's not a problem," John said. "Dean looks after him."

"How old are they anyway?" Bobby asked suspiciously. Dean might have been older but he didn't look near old enough to be taking care of his brother.

"Six and two. Attached at the…I'd say hip but it's more like chest. Don't go anywhere without each other. Hell, Sam listens to Dean more than he listens to me."

Bobby thought that wasn't the greatest parenting right here but he kept quiet. Dean coughed again, this time accompanied by retching.

"Alright. Y'all can stay until he's strong enough to move on. Suppose there are some things I've got to teach you anyway." Bobby watched as John's ego grew three times over.

"I already know enough," he said. "Been Hunting for over a year now." Bobby snorted and waved his hand at the man; if he was like the rest, he wouldn't last six more months on the job with that attitude.

"Dad?" Dean was standing in the doorway, Sam just behind his brother like a shadow. He peered at Bobby from behind Dean's side and Bobby glowered at him. The younger boy hid his face.

"What?"

"I don't feel well." Somehow, the kid looked even worse. Gone was the rosy flush from his cheeks; now they were pale and gray-looking. His eyes seemed to water as if he were on the verge of tears.

"Well, Bobby here is gonna take good care of you," John said.

"Excuse me?" Bobby said. John looked at him.

"You just said that they could stay with you." Bobby gaped at him, at a loss for words. Well yeah, he had said that but he'd meant the whole family could stay here. He wasn't no babysitting service.

"Well I meant y'all could stay here," Bobby said, expression growing dark. He didn't like being taken advantage of and that was exactly what was going on. "But I'm not so sure of that anymore. I think you take those two boys with you and get the hell off my property!" The last of the words ended up coming out at a shout and Bobby knew his face was getting all red and patchy like it did when he was upset.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" John shouted right back at him. Bobby noticed Sam flinch out of the corner of his eye when his father yelled. Dean just watched with wide eyes. "We drove all this way, came to you for help, and now you're turning us away? What kind of Hunter are you?"

That was it for Bobby. He snatched a gun from where it was hanging by the front door and bullied John Winchester right out the front door. He had absolutely no intention of ever seeing this man again, that was for damn sure. Mr. John Winchester could take his no-good, arrogant, self-righteous, stubborn, gloating ass and shove it-

"Bye, sir."

There was the boy with the green eyes again and now there were tears tracks down his face, perhaps out of pain or frustration or fright, Bobby didn't know. He knew though that Dean was trying his best to stand up straight with the weight of the duffel bag forcing his small shoulders down and a little brother clinging to his shirttails.

"Say goodbye, Sam," Dean rasped around another cough.

"Bye-bye," Sam said, waving five plump fingers at Bobby's gun.

Bobby swallowed.

He didn't even like kids, couldn't stand the messes they made, and how their fingers were always sticky even straight out of the bath. He hated the crying and snot and the annoying little clothes with equally annoying little buttons and zippers. But…

There was something about these two, about the way they moved together, almost in a dance, to meet their son of a bitch father. He imagined them driving away, imagined not knowing where they would end up or if they would survive the night, let alone until their teen years. He had known John Winchester for all of thirty minutes but he didn't trust the man with his own children.

Bobby Singer sucked in the breath that would change his life.

"Fine," he called out. John turned around, face practically glowing with anger. His eyes swept over Bobby and then down to the two boys traipsing barefoot back to the Impala. Dean looked over his shoulder at Bobby, and when they their gazes met, Bobby swore he saw a younger version of himself staring back at him.

"I'll take 'em," he said. "The boys."

Dean whipped his head back to his father who was obviously trying to decide whether to swallow his pride and let Bobby take his kids or whether to finally let himself be free to hunt without constant distraction. Sensing the wavering tension in the air, Sam started to whine and tug on Dean's shirt, but the elder child just swatted at his brother's hand and told him to shush.

"Alright," John said. "Thank you."

"Just for a little while," Bobby warned. "You better come back to get them." John nodded and walked over to his sons.

"Be good for Mr. Singer, okay?" he said, crouching down next to them and showing the first paternal instinct Bobby had said this whole time.

"I want to go with you," Dean said, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. "I'll be good, I promise."

"I good," Sam echoed and reached out for his father. John held Sam close, burying his face in the little boy's messy hair just for an instant, but ultimately pulling away, causing Sam to start crying.

"No!" the toddler screamed, kicking at Dean who was trying to hold him back.

"Take care of your brother," was all John said before he stood up.

"Yessir," Dean said, who looked an awful lot as if he would like to cling to John's legs as he walked back to the Impala.

"Everything they need is in the duffel," John said to Bobby as he opened the driver door. "They don't have much."

"We'll make do," said Bobby, easily slipping into the plural. "Don't get yourself killed," he added, immediately regretting it when he saw Dean's stricken face.

Then with a wave and the spin of tires, John Winchester was gone. Almost as if he'd never been there at all.

Except he had. Because there were two small children in Bobby's driveway, one of them still screaming his head off, the other looking as if he were about to pass out any second. Bobby sighed. What had he done? It had been a stupid, irrational, impulsive act. He didn't know anything about kids, let alone taking care of them. He wished Karen was still here; she'd know right what to do with them. He tried to think like his wife.

"Let's get you out of the cold," Bobby said. Dean looked away from the now-empty driveway and toward Bobby.

"Yessir," he murmured. "C'mon Sammy, stop crying. It'll be okay," he soothed. Sam stopped the god-awful shrieking but he was still crying as he wrapped both arms around Dean's legs. Dean brushed a hand through his brother's hair. "It'll be okay," he repeated and then, "You hungry?"

They must have been the magic words. Sam's tears stopped.

"Hungwy?" he said, and the hopefulness in his tiny voice almost broke Bobby's heart of stone. Almost.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I have Cheerios in my bag." Sam smiled and reached for the bag. "When we're inside," Dean instructed. "Come on."

"Alright, you both can sleep in here," Bobby said after he had lead them into the house and up to the second floor. It took forever because Sam's short little legs couldn't climb all that well yet and so Bobby and Dean had to wait patiently for him to scramble up the stairs on all fours.

The room was the smaller of the two guest rooms in the house, but the other had a ton of weapons in it and the bed wasn't put together. But from the way the two boys never got more than a foot away from each other, he figured putting them in the same room was okay.

"You'll have to share a bed," Bobby apologized.

"It's okay," Dean said. "Sammy likes to sleep with me anyway."

"There's a chest of drawers in the closet for yer clothes." Bobby bit his lip. What else was he supposed to do? What did kids need?

Dean dropped the duffel on the ground, seemingly dazed as he glanced around the room. Sam wasn't so concerned with his new home.

"O's?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Hold on." He bent over the duffel and began rummaging around its contents. Bobby was standing in the doorway but he heard Dean's soft gasp and then he definitely heard the boy start coughing. It was a painful sound, the loud hacking of the kid's lungs struggling to pull in enough air. Bobby moved forward to help just as Dean fell to his knees, abandoning his search for Cheerios.

"Whoa, champ," Bobby said, rushing in and wrapping an arm around Dean's chest to keep him from completely hitting the floor. The boy wriggled in his grip but gave up a second later when his body spasmed with another coughing fit.

"Easy does it," Bobby said, lowering his stiff knees to the floor. He could feel Dean's chest heaving under his arm, could feel the shudders that wracked his lean frame as he gripped onto Bobby's hand, trying to breathe. When the coughing finally subsided, Dean was spent. He hung limp in Bobby's grasp, head bowed, breathing hard like a winded racehorse.

"Let's get you into bed," Bobby said. Again, Dean tried to pull away but he was too weak and instead, just let Bobby scoop him up. The Hunter couldn't believe how light the boy was – almost as if he weighed nothing at all. As if his baggy clothes were hiding a skeleton underneath them.

"Dee?"

Sam trotted after them as Bobby set Dean on the bed and peered over the edge of the mattress.

"S-sorry," Dean mumbled.

"Ain't no need to be sorry," Bobby said, shaking out the blanket at the end of the bed. "I 'spect you got yourself pneumonia. Probably from walking around without any shoes on."

"Yeah," Dean sighed, eyes closing. Bobby slid an arm under his back and put another pillow there to support him. Dean coughed feebly as Bobby laid him back down.

"Sammy?"

"Dee!" Sam said, clawing at the bed.

"Hold on, pipsqueak," Bobby said, lifting the toddler up next to his brother. Sam glared at him and snuggled up next to his brother. In one of his chubby hands was a half eaten miniature bag of Cheerios, the kind they gave out at breakfast bars in motels.

"Let yer brother sleep," Bobby said, eyeing the younger kid dubiously. You weren't supposed to leave a kid by themselves, right? But Bobby didn't want them to feel like they were being spied on. Well, Dean wouldn't know the difference. He was already sleeping, every breath sounding harsh and making Bobby wince. He wondered if he had any cough syrup tucked away in a cabinet somewhere and was on his way to find it downstairs when one of his phones rang, the one marked 'Home'.

"'lo?"

"Hey Bobby, it's Jim." Bobby growled and settled down in one of the kitchen chairs.

"I got a bone to pick with you, Pastor," he said.

"Ah. I suppose John Winchester showed up at your door?"

"You suppose right," Bobby said. "And not just him but two little ones as well. You gonna tell me why you didn't warn me he was dragging around a couple of rugrats?"

"Probably because I knew you'd turn them away before you even saw them," Jim said easily. Bobby sighed into the phone and ran a weary hand over his face. "I'm sure you noticed they aren't in good shape," Jim continued.

"They sure ain't," Bobby agreed. "The older one is pretty sick." This time it was Jim's turn to sigh.

"I told the father to get him to a free clinic but he didn't seem too concerned. I'm sorry to hear he's worse. How's the little one?"

"Gun-shy," Bobby said, referring to the way Sam walked only in his brother's shadow. "I don't know what I'm going to do with them." Pastor Jim made a surprised noise.

"What are you talking about?" Bobby sat up straighter.

"That bastard, Winchester, dropped them and ran. I thought you told him I'd watch the boys."

"N-no," stuttered Jim. He sounded distressed. "I would never do that to you, Bobby. I had no idea what he was planning."

"Son of a bitch," Bobby said. "When I see him again…what happened to him anyway? What's his story?"

"Lost his wife," Jim said hesitantly, as if he could feel Bobby stiffen up at the last word. "Something pinned her to the ceiling and set the house on fire. Barely got the boys out in time, he said."

"Shit."

"Yeah. He's a rough one. Not sure he did the right thing by keeping those kids around. In my opinion, they'd be better off living with grandparents or something."

But there was already something growing in Bobby's gut, a protective feeling over the two youngsters upstairs. He didn't know why he felt so strongly over them, but he knew they might be something special. Damn, he was getting sentimental.

"I've got 'em," he said gruffly.

"Thanks, Bobby," Pastor Jim said softly. "I know you never wanted – I know Karen - ,"

"I'll talk to you later," Bobby said and hung up. It took a while before he could pull himself together enough to leave the table. His chest had constricted at the mention of his wife, his airway just a bit tighter than it had been before. Bobby's head reeled and he drew in a breath, trying to steady himself against the onslaught of emotion that always accompanied the memories. It'd already been so many years and still the pain hit him fresh every time. He glanced around the house, hearing Karen chastise him in his head, telling him it was no place for a child – children – to be in.

With that, he stood and started tidying up. Not cleaning exactly but he cleared counters and tables of knives, tucked away the bars of iron, the bags of salt. Then he went about adding even more protection to the already riddled walls of the house because he wasn't about to take any chances. Little kids couldn't protect themselves.

After a while, his aching back needed a break and he figured now was a good a time as any to check up on them again. He loitered outside the bedroom door for a good couple minutes before getting up the nerve to go inside, half-terrified of what he'd find. What if they had died or something? Or escaped?

But no. Both boys were exactly as he had left them an hour ago. Dean was sleeping, fussing lightly in his slumber, and Sam was sitting on the bed, something in his hand. The empty bag of Cheerios was at the end of the bed and it looked so tiny, not even the size of Bobby's palm. His stomach shriveled at the thought of just how little the brothers had had to eat lately.

Sam stilled at once when Bobby took a step in to the room.

"Hey," Bobby said, lifting a hand in greeting. Sam's eyes narrowed and he crept closer to his sleeping brother. "Whaddya got there?" Sam didn't answer, and his eyes didn't leave Bobby as the Hunter walked further into the room. "Is that a toy?"

It was. A small, paint-chipped action figure that looked familiar. Sam clutched it to his chest as if he was afraid Bobby was going to take it from him.

"How's yer brother?" Bobbys said, coming around to the other side of the bed. Sam scrambled backwards, away from the man, as Bobby sat on the edge of the mattress, frowning when he felt the intense heat coming off Dean's skin. "Not good, huh?" he said, more to himself than the toddler.

"Dee," Sam said.

"Yeah," Bobby said. "I heard you two like each other a whole lot. That's good," he added after a moment. "Wish I'd had someone to share tough times with." When he looked up, Sam was watching him blankly.

"You wanna come downstairs?" Bobby said, standing. Sam shrank back. "I got a TV," Bobby said. "We could probably find some cartoons. You like cartoons?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Huh," Bobby grunted and then remembered what Dean had said earlier. He eyed the empty cereal bag. "You still hungry, pipsqueak?" Just like before, he could see the kid perk up automatically.

"Hungwy?" he asked and scooched a centimeter closer to Bobby.

"Yep," Bobby said. "I got lots of food downstairs in the kitchen. Pizza, cupcakes, cookies."

"Choochies?"

"Oh yeah," Bobby said in an exaggerated tone. Of course he probably had nothing of the sort in the cabinets but Sam didn't need to know that.

"Dee?"

"No, your brother has to stay here," Bobby said. Sam still hadn't made a move and

Bobby made a show of walking halfway to the door. When he glanced back, Sam was looking between his brother and Bobby, clearly torn between leaving the safety of Dean and going downstairs for food. Bobby grinned when he heard Sam finally decide and little feet hit the hardwood floor. However, Sam froze when he saw Bobby watching him. So the Hunter made his way out the door, waiting for the footsteps to follow him.

And follow they did. All the way down the hall and toward the stairs. In fact, Bobby was all the way down the stairs when he realized Sam was no longer following him. Slowly, he turned around as not to startle the child and was surprised to find Sam at the top of the stairs.

"Come on," Bobby urged. "Cookies this way." But Sam was just shifting from foot to foot. "Ah," Bobby said after a moment. "You can't come down the stairs by your lonesome, can you?" He trudged back up the stairs and before Sam could process what was happening, Bobby scooped him up. The toddler went stiff as a board and Bobby almost dropped him.

"Hey now," Bobby said, huffing out a breath as they descended the stairs. "I ain't gonna hurt you." It wasn't until they were back into the kitchen that Sam clung to Bobby with his arms and the man was pretty sure that was because Bobby's Rottweiler, Rumsfeld, had just started barking at the back door.

"Don't mind him," Bobby told Sam, but inside he was unsure. He didn't think Rummy had even ever seen a child before in his life, let alone had to share his house with one. "We'll let him in later," Bobby said. Sam's head swiveled this way and that as they crossed the kitchen. When Bobby tried to dump him in a chair, the kid hung on to his neck.

"Okay, you gotta let go," he explained. "So I can get your food." But Sam was stubborn and wrapped his arms and legs around Bobby like a monkey. "Alright," Bobby said, hitching the child up on his hip. "Let's see what grub I got."

The fridge was full of spoiled food and old leftovers. Bobby pined for the days where the freezer would be full of homemade dinners and there was always a pie in the oven. Karen had been the cook, not him. Sure he made a mean venison stew but he doubted the kid was going to eat that. Finally, he found a package of spaghetti and some tomato sauce.

"Spaghetti it is."

"Sketti," Sam said and Bobby nodded. The child's small body was warm against his own but, like with his brother, Bobby could feel the thinness beneath his pajamas and it worried him.

"But I'm gonna set you down so I can make it, okay?" Bobby said. Sam allowed himself to be put on the floor but he clutched the folds of Bobby's jeans in his chubby fist, making maneuvering around the kitchen infinitely more difficult.

If Bobby thought that he was messy, feeding spaghetti to a two-year-old was on a whole different level. By the time Sam had finished the bowl, there was more spaghetti on his face and clothes than in his stomach. Bobby sat opposite of him and watched as the little kid swirled a finger in the mostly-empty bowl and then sucked it clean. So much for the starving kids in Africa; he had one in his kitchen.

Bobby managed to dig out some age-old molasses cookies from the back of some cupboard and even though he was sure they were stale, Sam bit into one enthusiastically. That was when they heard the shout.

It was more like a strangled scream, caught between desperation and fear.

"Saaaaaam!"

There was a split second of Bobby and Sam staring at each other and then each was on his feet, rushing to the stairs. Bobby took the stairs two at a time, paying no attention to the toddler scrambling up behind him. When he reached the guest room, he found Dean awake and out of bed. The boy was hanging onto the doorframe, almost bent double with coughing. At Bobby's approach, his head snapped up.

"S-ssam," he gasped. Bobby's heart plummeted when he saw blood dribbling down Dean's chin. Pneumonia it was.

"He's right behind me," Bobby said. "We were having some dinner." Dean's only response was to tremble, his eyes searching Bobby frantically, suspicion leaking through the pain.

"Easy, champ," Bobby said, both hands up in the air. "I ain't gonna hurt you," he repeated the same line he'd said to Sam. Something wasn't right about such little kids being untrustworthy. What had happened to them? A part of Bobby didn't even want to know.

"Dee!" Sam had finally made it up the stairs and rushed to his big brother, almost knocking him over as he flung his arms around Dean's middle. There was visible relief on Dean's part and all his strength seemed to seep out of him. Bobby caught him as he sagged.

"Back to bed," he said. Nothing about the boy suggested a struggle. His clothes were damp, his body radiating heat like a furnace. When he coughed, blood splattered onto Bobby's shirt front. Dean's eyes widened.

"Sorry," he said.

"Don't worry about it. Ain't the worst that's happened to me. Not even close." Once he laid Dean down, he hoisted Sam up beside his brother who snuggled into Dean's side, glaring up at Bobby again. And they had just started to make progress. Dean coughed. The kid needed medical attention _now._ Lucky for him – and lucky for John Winchester – Bobby could help. He'd never let on to anyone other than Pastor Jim but once he'd started tending to wounded Hunters, he'd taken a couple of classes in EMT training.

"I'll be right back," he said after propping Dean up with several pillows grabbed from Bobby's own bed. Downstairs in the medical supply closet, he grabbed a whole bunch of stuff, eyes drifting to the phone. He should call a doctor. A real doctor. Sure Bobby knew how to stitch and set bones and whatnot, but that was all with adults. Kids were bound to be different. But he was sure as hell John Winchester had no health insurance and Bobby was also sure that the guy probably didn't want his kids' names entered in any kind of system.

"Okay, I'm back," he said, arms full of supplies. Sam watched him intently as he came around Dean's side of the bed and pulled a chair close to the mattress. The green eyes fluttered open, wandering at first and then focusing on the Hunter.

"That's right," Bobby said. "Just keep looking at me. We're gonna fix you up. You know what an IV is?" Dean shook his head and Bobby held it up. "It's a bag of special medicine that goes right into your veins to make you feel better." He started prepping Dean's arm.

"Hurt?" Sam asked, peering over at Bobby's ministrations.

"Yeah," Bobby said. "Your brother is real sick. But we're going to make him feel better."

"Choochie," Sam said and pulled a crumbling cookie out of his pajamas. He pressed it into Dean's hand.

"That was nice of you," Bobby said, although he was kind of alarmed he hadn't noticed the two-year-old snatch cookies right out from under him. "Okay, Dean, here we go," he said as he slid the needle into the back of Dean's hand. The boy hardly even flinched. His eyes rolled.

"Good job," Bobby said, taping the needle into place and hanging the bag on a nail above the bed. "That was the worst part." Dean's lips parted, the ghost of a sound coming out but Bobby didn't catch it. "What was that, champ?"

"I want…my mom." It was just a whisper, a quiet plea, and it made Bobby bite down on his lower lip. He busied himself getting the oxygen tank ready.

"These are gonna help you breathe, maybe stop your chest from hurting so much," he explained as he wound the nasal cannula around Dean's ears. Now the boy was staring straight at Bobby, his expression burning a hole in the Hunter's skin, making him uncomfortable.

"Where's my mom?" he asked, eyes flickering over to Sam and then back to Bobby.

"Not here right now," Bobby said, turning away. He cleaned up the medical stuff and walked out of the room without another word, aware that two sets of eyes were watching his every move.

Bobby made it to his room before his knees gave out. He collapsed onto his bed and let the creaking of the springs jar him back in time, flashes of his own mother appearing like fireworks in his mind.

Her fear when his father opened the fridge and reached for a beer.

Her helplessness when he beat her, the way she cowered under his gaze.

Her look of utter betrayal when Bobby thought he'd fixed their problem for good.

He'd never understood why she had felt so much loyalty toward the monster. Could she have truly loved him, the man who sent her bed with bloody lips and broken fingers? When he thought about it – and god he tried not to – that was when he'd first started treating injuries.

Bobby raised his head with a weary sigh. It'd been so long since he thought about his mother and it drained him. Just like thinking about Karen did. He was so tired of losing people and he knew that's why he kept everyone at arm's length. He couldn't afford to get attached.

It scared him how the two boys down the hall seemed to have already carved out a piece of him. It'd hardly been half a day. What was wrong with him?

"Uh-oh."

Bobby turned when he heard the small voice. Sammy was standing in his doorway, clutching his action figure.

"Uh-oh," he said again, turning a hand palm up in what Bobby thought was probably the cutest thing he'd seen this year.

"What's wrong, pipsqueak?"

"Dee uh-oh," Sam said and then tottered back down the hall out of sight. Bobby grabbed what he'd come into the room for in the first place and followed the toddler.

The "uh-oh" became apparent as soon as Bobby walked into the room and the stench of vomit assaulted him. Dean was leaning over the side of the bed, coughing and spluttering his way through the end of the vomiting episode.

"Balls," he said.

"Uh-oh," Sam said again, pointing to the pool of throw up.

"Yep," Bobby agreed. "That is a big uh-oh." Dean was in the process of swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"I c-can clean it u-u-p," he stuttered, shrinking into a ball when Bobby took a step toward him. "I'll clean it u-up."

"No you won't," Bobby said, putting a hand on each of Dean's shoulders and forcing them to stop moving. The oxygen tubes had gone askew and Bobby fixed them with gentle fingers before squatting in front of the boy.

"Listen here," he said and Dean's obeyed the command, allowing his gaze to drift upwards. He flinched when he met Bobby's gaze and the Hunter gave him a small smile, trying to be comforting even though he didn't know how.

"I don't know what's been going in in your life, but you're safe here. I ain't got much but I'm gonna take care of you for a while. You hear me? You're safe, champ. And your little brother too." Bobby didn't know how long he could offer this haven but Dean didn't need to be burdened with that right now. No six-year-old should.

"O-o-kay," Dean say, sniffling and rubbing the glimmer of tears out of his eyes.

"Good," Bobby said. He helped Dean back into the bed and made quick work of cleaning up the vomit.

"Good as knew," Bobby said, throwing the dirty towels out into the hallway. "Now let's get you two changed and ready for bed."

"Night-night?" Sam asked.

"That's right," Bobby said, stripping the covers off of Dean. Sam was laying on the other side of the bed, eyelids growing heavy. Dean was already mostly asleep. They were both worn out from the overwhelming stress of the day. "It's time to go night-night. But first we're gonna get you washed up because I bet y'all have some dirt behind your ears." He grinned at Sam who smiled shyly back and then hid his face in his pillow. Bobby chuckled.

He slipped off Dean's too-damp clothes, leaving the boy in just his underwear, his pale skin looking almost bruised in the dull light of the bedside lamp. The Hunter took a warmed up washcloth and slid it over Dean's body, scrubbing gently at the dirt and overall grime.

"There we go," Bobby said gently as Dean's eyes opened for a moment. "I got you one of my nice soft shirts until we get you some more clothes. We should probably burn what's in that duffel of yours." He threaded Dean's arm through an old flannel of his and then buttoned it up and drew the blankets back over him. Bobby's heard thudded hard when he heard Dean let out a content sigh before falling asleep.

"Your turn, pipsqueak," Bobby said. "Come on, let's go to the bathroom for you." This time, Sam followed him willingly, even helped take off his own clothes, although he couldn't quite work the old zipper on the footie pajamas.

"Into the bath," Bobby said, lifting the boy and setting him in the tub. He wasn't going to draw a full bath because he doubted the toddler would stay awake that long. Instead he just administered the same washcloth bath that he had to Dean, albeit with more soap.

"Can you say Bobby?" he prodded. Sam tilted his head to one side, looking astonishingly like a puppy. "I know," Bobby said when only silence followed his question. "You don't talk much, do ya?" He turned Sam around to get at his back. "That's okay," he continued. "You take as long as you like. I'm sure you'll have plenty to say when the time comes."

He ended up carrying the child back to the room, Sam's cheek resting on Bobby's shoulder, his action figure never having left his grip. Bobby pulled another shirt of his over Sam's head and knotted the bottom so the child wouldn't trip over it. Once Sam was underneath the covers, he scooted up next to Dean and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Dean's body seemed to automatically curl around his baby brother although he remained asleep.

Bobby pulled up a chair.

"I'm just gonna watch out for you," Bobby murmured as Sam's eyes closed. "Just tonight, though. Not gonna make a habit out of it," he warned no one in particular.

As tired as he was, Bobby couldn't close his eyes, couldn't stop staring at the sight of the brothers snuggled together. How quickly his life – and theirs – had changed within a day.

Bobby Singer had never expected to have family again. And yet, he had an inkling – call it a Hunter's sixth sense – that these two boys were about to be part of his life in a bigger way than he could imagine.

Yep, he was definitely sentimental.

* * *

 **AN:** What did you think? I've been so nervous about publishing this because it's my first time really writing Bobby.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I am absolutely blown away by the response to this little fic. So much so that I decided to give you guys another tidbit. Also, I wanted more interaction between Dean and Bobby. So, here it is.

* * *

Bobby slept with a gun on the nightstand. He slept with a knife under his pillow, his fingers resting on the worn, wooden handle. And it was that handle he gripped with white knuckles when he heard his bedroom door creak open. Bobby purposefully left the hinges rusty so that if something ever did cross the threshold, he'd know.

Like tonight.

He'd been dreaming of Karen when he slipped back into consciousness and it was her face, her voice that lingered in the room as he rolled over, knife in hand. Even as his muscles twitched and tightened, his mind was still hazy from sleep, from the way Karen had stroked his cheek. The way it had felt so real.

And it was that fuzziness that had him brandishing a knife before his eyes were open, the metal tip coming within inches of a certain hazel-eyed toddler. One who yelped and tumbled to the floor when he tried to back away.

"Balls," Bobby said in the dark, tossing the knife behind him onto the bed. He'd forgotten in that moment between waking and sleeping, forgotten that down the hall were two children, the Winchesters. The smaller of the two – Sam – was on his floor. Bobby flicked the lamp on.

"Watcha doing up, pipsqueak?" Bobby said, swinging both legs off the mattress. Sam crab-walked backwards, out of the light and back into the shadows. The boy seemed to be most comfortable in the dark, always half-hidden, trying to make himself invisible.

"Potty," came a whisper.

"Alright," Bobby said. "Let's go." But Sam darted out of the door and all the way down the hall.

"Hey!" Bobby whisper-yelled. "You missed the bathroom!" Sam gave him a quick glance over his shoulder before disappearing into his bedroom. Grumbling, Bobby followed him, the hardwood floors creaking under his steps. He almost ran right into Sam who was standing just inside the doorway of the room.

"Oi!" Bobby said, trying to keep his voice down, all too aware that there was a sick child in the bed. He'd stayed up with the boys for the first few hours but just a little while ago had decided to catch a couple hours of sleep in his own bed. He automatically moved over to Dean's side of the bed, guided by the raspy breaths coming from the boy.

"Potty," Sam said again just as Bobby clicked on the bedside lamp. First he noticed Dean flinch as the light washed over his face, eyelashes quivering, lips downturned. Second, he noticed Sam pointing to the bed. Specifically to a large wet spot where the child had been laying.

"Ah," Bobby said. "Potty indeed."

"Uh-oh," Sam said, which Bobby was quickly learning was one of the child's favorite phrases.

"Yeah," Bobby said, now identifying the sour smell in the air. "You kiddos sure come with a lot of uh-ohs." Sam skipped over to where Bobby was standing and that was when the Hunter noticed the t-shirt he'd put on Sam was wet too and that the boy was probably filthy underneath. He glanced at the clock; it was four in the morning.

"First we'll move your brother," he said, drawing the overs away from Dean's body. The boy withdrew his limbs into himself at the assault of cold air.

"Dee?" Dean's eyes fluttered and he winced against the light before closing them again.

"Hey champ, just gonna move you."

"S'mmy?" Dean's lips hardly moved but Bobby heard the indistinct mumble for what it was. Dean worked his eyes open again and they landed on Bobby. He watched several emotions flicker across the boy's face before one of wariness settled in permanently.

"You're alright," Bobby said. "Yer brother wet the bed so I gotta move you. Don't have enough spare sheets in the house." The fever patches were back and the nape of Dean's neck was damp with sweat, trickling down his spine. Bobby could feel it as he sat the boy up against the headboard.

"'m fine," Dean said, pushing Bobby's hands away, ending with a cough. Bobby uncurled the oxygen from his ears.

"Okay, pipsqueak," he said, turning to Sam. "I got an important job for you. Then we'll get you cleaned up."

"Potty," Sam said, pointing in between his legs. Bobby couldn't help but chuckle.

"We're gonna work on that," he promised the child before unhooking Dean's IV from the wall. "You hold onto this – use two hands, like so, okay good. Hold tight!" Sam clenched the plastic bag so tightly that his tiny knuckles went white as he held the bag away from his body. Bobby scooped Dean up, wincing as the boy coughed again. He held Dean close to his chest and nodded to Sam. "Let's go."

With the toddler marching at his side, Bobby set off on the short journey. They made an unwieldy and yet charming trio, the older man and the two boys. Dean turned his face into Bobby's shirt, pressing his cheek right over where the Hunter's heart was beating just a little faster than normally.

"There we go," he said, easing Dean onto his own bed. For a moment – just a split second – the boy wouldn't unwrap his arms from around Bobby's neck. Then Sam scooted up to his brother and Dean's focus shifted. He reached out a clammy hand and Sam grasped it, dropping the IV bag onto the bed.

"Uh-oh," Sam told his brother. "Me uh-oh." Dean's eyebrows knit together and his eyes flickered toward Bobby.

"I can clean it," he whispered. "It's not his fault."

"I know it ain't," Bobby said, pulling a spare blanket from his closet and throwing it over the boy who was already starting to shiver. "And I don't mind cleaning it. Here, take a sip of water," he said after he had filled a cup from the bathroom tap.

Bobby slid a strong arm around Dean's back and hoisted the boy up, waiting until he was through coughing to bring the cup to his lips.

"Th-thanks," Dean said, wiping water from his chin when he was finished. The green eyes were disappearing under heavy lids and Bobby slid him down again, gently swatting Dean's fingers away when they rubbed at his IV. The boy forced himself to keep his eyes open; he couldn't help but stare at the figure in front of him, so similar to his father and yet so, so different. Bobby had already turned away when he heard Dean's soft voice.

"Sir?"

"Yeah?"

Both Dean and Sam were watching him, linked together by hands and hearts they refused to separate. There was a glimmer of wonderment in Dean's eyes when he asked,

"Are you an angel?"

Bobby sucked in a deep breath and then shook his head, staring down at his barefeet and watching his ugly toes wriggle. He spoke to the floor when he answered, stunned and humbled by the innocent question.

"No, son, I'm not. Just a man who is trying his best to do the right thing." When Bobby dared to look up again, he found Dean's eyes already closed, fingers still clasped around Sam's.

Bobby didn't know if the boy had even heard him answer.

xxx

He was starting to like the quiet, strange toddler. While Sam didn't talk much, he sure wasn't stupid. He was a regular toddler, getting into things he shouldn't while his brother wasn't looking. Which, at the moment, was always. Bobby found that out when he went to draw a bath to clean the kid up and turned around to discover Sam half buried in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Bobby wrapped his hands around his tiny waist and drew him out. The boy giggled.

"What are you doing, huh?" Bobby asked, tugging the t-shirt over Sam's head and throwing it behind them. Sam whined at the cold air and bounced from foot to foot while he waited for Bobby to finishing filling the tub. He whined again when his toes touched the hot water and he immediately pulled his legs up to his chest so that Bobby had the boy suspended in midair like a sort of acrobat.

"Aren't you tired?" Bobby argued, once he had convinced the boy the tub wasn't filled with lava by swishing the water around with his hand. Sam patted the surface of the water and then promptly sat down, sending a small wave over the side of the tub, effectively soaking Bobby's t-shirt.

Sam grinned up at him.

"I'll take that as a no," Bobby said, lathering up a washcloth. "You know," he went on, "you boys are gonna need some clothes, aren't ya? And food."

"Hungwy?" Sam said, whipping his head around to look at Bobby. He'd been playing with the shampoo bottle but now it slipped from his soapy fingers into the water. Bobby fished it out and Sam grabbed it again.

"Yeah, we have to go shopping," Bobby said. "I bet you're real fun to keep tabs on in a grocery store." He sat back on his heels and let Sam play a little longer, satisfied that the little boy seemed happy playing in the water, watching the shampoo bottle bob along beside him.

"Okay, let's go," Bobby said finally. "Back to bed. Although," he added. "It's almost time to start the day, ain't it? I have a feeling I'm not gonna get much sleep with you two around."

"Night-night," Sam said as they walked back to Bobby's room. Sam dragged his towel behind him, preferring to let himself "air dry" as Bobby's mother had called it. If he wasn't careful, he'd have two sick children instead of one. With that thought, he grabbed another shirt of his and wrapped Sam in it.

"I'll be downstairs on the couch if you need me," he told the toddler. "Just give a holler."

"No uh-oh," Sam said and Bobby smiled.

"That's right. No more uh-ohs. At least not for tonight."

xxx

Bobby grabbed a couple hours of sleep on the couch but his body wouldn't let him rest too far into the day. Not every routine could be broken. He listened for noise from the upstairs but when he heard none, he made himself a pot of coffee and downed two cups without even thinking about it, burning his tongue in the process. Still, a sore tongue was nothing compared to what the lack of caffeine would have caused. And he was sure he was going to need it for today. His first full day with the boys.

He puttered around downstairs for about an hour and then couldn't hold back any longer. His worry about waking Sam immediately vanished when he stepped into his room and found the toddler sitting up in bed playing with his action figure.

"Morning," Bobby said and Sam ducked his head, suddenly shy.

"Aw, don't be like that," Bobby said, setting down his third cup off coffee. Sam craned his neck to see inside the mug and then curled back up against Dean.

Dean who still hadn't woken and who still didn't look remotely better. Bobby sighed.

"I think we're gonna have to take yer brother to the doctor," Bobby said. The mattress groaned as Bobby sat on the edge of it. He'd been hoping the extra oxygen and the IV fluids would be enough to prompt recovery but Dean was worse off than Bobby originally thought. It was a wonder the boy was still standing when he'd arrived at Bobby's considering how fast he'd gone downhill.

"Dee?" Sam's voice was insistent as he tugged on the ends of his brother's hair.

"No, no," Bobby said, pushing his hand away, but Dean was already stirring, brought back to consciousness by his brother's voice.

"Dee!" Sam said, bending over his brother's face.

"Hi, Sam," Dean breathed without opening his eyes. "Didja brush your teeth yet?" Sam looked up at Bobby with a worried expression, almost as if he was afraid the Hunter was going to tattle on him.

"Up," Sam said. His tiny fingers dug into Dean's arm and the older boy drew in a sharp breath and finally lifted his eyelids. "Dee, _up_!" Dean's body jerked at the command.

"Easy, kiddo," Bobby said as awareness filtered in. Even barely awake, Dean's muscles were coiled tight, his lips pressed together in a grimace. He reached out and clutched at Sam's hand, eyes roaming the room, taking everything in.

"Where's my dad?" he asked after a moment.

"On a trip," Bobby said. "You two are gonna stay with me for a little while. Name's Bobby." There was a long moment where Dean seemed unsure if the Hunter was telling the truth, then he relaxed into the bed.

"I don't feel well," he said, turning his face away from Bobby. "Can you make me better? I have to take care of Sam."

"I'm trying," Bobby said. Dean flinched when Bobby laid a heavy hand on his chest, taking in the rapid beating of his heart. It was costing him effort to be awake and talk and yet he was hiding it so well. "Don't worry about your brother. Me and him are friends. I'll take good care of him until you're better. Right, Sam?" The toddler looked up at his name but didn't answer.

"Promise?" Dean said. "Because Dad says he'll take care of him but he forgets lunch sometimes. Don't forget lunch, okay?"

"I won't," Bobby promised. "You just work on getting better. Me and Sam will be here, eating three square meals a day." Dean's eyes were starting to close but he managed to look Bobby straight in the eye when he asked,

"Am I gonna die?" Bobby's chest contracted.

"No," he choked out. Where had that come from?

"You can tell me," Dean said. His body shivered from holding back a lingering cough but his expression was tough. Strong. Like a Hunter. "I just – I just want someone to take care of Sammy."

"Deeee," Sammy whined, burrowing under his brother's arms. He didn't understand what was being said but he could feel the shift in tones, the stillness with which Dean held his body.

"You ain't gonna die," Bobby said gruffly. "Nobody dies on my watch. And that's that."

Dean fell asleep with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

* * *

 **A/N:** My critique partner says I can't leave it like this, so how would y'all like a third and final chapter? Tell me yes or no in a review!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Well, you pulled another one out of me. Here we see Sam and Dean out in the "real world" for the first time with Bobby.

Side request: anyone want to do some art for this story? I'd love it so much seeing as I have no artistic ability but keep imagining these scenarios in my head. Just PM or review or come chat on tumblr (thesethingswillchangeus). I'd be really grateful!

*edited and updated version of this chapter

* * *

It was ten in the morning when Bobby decided enough was enough. He was taking Dean to the hospital. The Hunter's nerves were stretched tighter than a violin's strings just listening to the boy's breathing worsen. He'd try moving him in all sorts of different positions but Bobby worried he was just making the boy worse. To make things even more horrifying, Dean had thrown up the last dose of Tylenol Bobby had given him, making it impossible to keep his fever down.

"Okay, pipsqueak. We're going outside." Bobby said, standing up beside the bed after changing Dean's clothes out yet again. At this rate, Bobby was going to run out of shirts to dress the boy in. Sam looked up from where he'd been coloring on some newspaper with a pencil.

"Yeah," Bobby said to himself, scratching the stubble growing along his jaw. "I think we definitely got to take him in. But I got a friend over at Sioux Falls General so don't you worry. We'll keep this quiet, just between us. You ain't gonna say anything, are ya?"

Sam blinked.

"Didn't think so."

Bobby used a warm washcloth to pry the medical tape off Dean's hand and then slowly withdrew the IV, pinching the skin to make it stop bleeding. Dean's head turned in his sleep, one cheek red from being pressed against the pillow for so long.

"Dad?"

"Nah, champ, just me," Bobby said, unwinding the cannula. "We're going to take a ride. Gonna get you fixed up so you're not hurting so much. How's that?"

"Dee," Sam said, finally sitting up and looking concerned when Bobby started swathing his brother in a blanket. "Bye-bye?" he said. "Dee bye-bye?"

"You're coming too," Bobby said. "Come along." Sam scrambled off the bed, newspaper crinkling as he followed Bobby down the hall, alarmed enough to scoot down the stairs on his butt instead of waiting at the top like he usually did.

"Dee!" Sam whined as Bobby jammed his feet into boots and opened the front door. His movements jostled the boy in his arms and Dean's eyes blinked open as he shivered from the cold blast of air.

"I gotcha," Bobby said.

"Where's Sam?" Dean wanted to know, twisting around even as he coughed. He almost fell out of Bobby's arms.

"Balls," the Hunter said. "Stay put, will you?"

"Sam," Dean insisted.

"Dee!" a voice piped up behind them.

"Okay, just don't move," Bobby said to Dean as he situated him in the backseat of his truck, making sure that all of the kid was covered by the blanket. Dean sank against the side of the car but his eyes were ever alert.

"I gotta get your brother."

"Hey you, let's go!" Bobby said to the toddler who was standing about ten feet away from the car. He was barefoot and shifting from foot to foot, obviously freezing as he watched the truck warily.

"Pala?" he mumbled.

"What's that?" Bobby said, sticking the carseat John had left in the driveway into the truck. "Come on!" Bobby said, waving his hand at Sam. But the child just took a step back, looking very confused.

"Pala?" he said again.

"He wants the Impala." came Dean's weak voice from inside the truck. "He's never been in another car."

"Aw, it's okay, pipsqueak." Sam shook his head.

"Pala!" he said. "Dee!"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean called out. "Come in the truck." But Sam wasn't having it. Eventually Bobby stalked past the frozen boy back into the house, grumbling all the way. He snatched the considerably lighter bag of cookies from the kitchen table and went back outside.

"Look," Bobby said. "Cookies!" Sam smiled without meaning to and he reached for the bag. Bobby stepped back and Sam followed him, moving closer to the truck. Bobby broke off a piece of cookie and handed it to him. Then Bobby took another step and they repeated the process. It was a painstaking process – especially because he had to wait for little Sam to chew and swallow the cookie before they went forward again. Eventually though, all three were sitting in the truck.

"Bye-bye," Sam said, waving at the house as they pulled out of the drive. Dean smiled at his brother. He rearranged his blanket so it was covering Sam's feet.

"Dean?"

"Yes, sir?"

"We're going to tell the doctor you're my nephew. Just go along with it. Let me do the talking."

"Yes, sir." Bobby hesitated then said,

"You don't have to call me sir. Bobby will do just fine."

"Dad says always 'spect my elders."

"Well, respect my wishes and call me Bobby," the man said, voice sharp. Sharper than he meant it to be. Dean's eyes turned down and he let Sam play with his hand without another word.

When they got to the hospital, Bobby carried Dean again, wincing when Sam's barefeet hit the pavement of the parking lot and then the tile of the Emergency Room floor. He wondered if anyone would notice and then decided he had bigger problems as Dean was growing listless again, the car ride having tired him out.

"I'm meeting Carolyn Wright," Bobby told the nurse at the front counter. "I called her on the way over."

"You'll have to fill out this paperwork," the nurse said, pushing a packet of forms toward him. Bobby glanced down at the boy in his arms.

"No," he said. "I'm meeting Dr. Wright. Just page her or something."

"You have to fill out the forms _first_ ," the nurse said. She stressed the last word as if Bobby didn't understand the definition of it. Just as Bobby was about to take the form and throw them on the floor, a blonde doctor swept through the double doors to his right.

"It's alright Shawna," she said, giving the nurse a reassuring smile and a nod. "This is an old friend of mine. We'll fill out the paperwork after I see the patient." Shawna muttered something about 'protocol' and then turned her back to Bobby, who rolled his eyes.

"Nice to see you," the doctor said to Bobby, a half-smirk crawling onto her face. "You always seem to be causing problems, Bobby."

"Alright, alright," he said, feeling heat on the back of his neck. "You always were right beside me on the playground, Carolyn." She laughed, a melodious sound that eased Bobby's tense muscles. Carolyn Wright was his oldest friend; they'd grown up together, lived on the same block, been in all the same homerooms.

"What have we here?" Carolyn said, unwrapping the blanket from Dean's face so she could see him better. He wasn't shivering anymore but his eyes were only half-open and he shrank away from her. "Let's go back to a room," she suggested and led them into the ER.

"This is Dean," Bobby said, laying the boy on the bed as Carolyn pulled the curtains closed around them. "He's real sick. Pneumonia, I think."

There was a whimper and a tug on Bobby's jeans and he looked down to find Sam peering up at him, disgruntled at being ignored for so long.

"Oh," Carolyn said, spotting Sam for the first time. "And who's this?" Sam gave her a dimpled grin and then hid behind Bobby's legs. "You didn't say anything about a second child on the phone, Bobby."

"This is Sam," Bobby said, propping another pillow behind Dean's thin shoulders. His eyes opened at his brother's name. "He ain't sick but he's on the skinny side. They both are. Both real skittish too if you know what I mean." Carolyn nodded and scrubbed her hands, appraising Dean from over at the sink, watching him watch Sam. She sat down on a stool and rolled over to the bed.

"Hey, Dean," she said in a soft voice.

"Hi," he whispered.

"I'm a doctor and was wondering if I could take a listen to your lungs?"

"Will you make me better?" Dean wanted to know. "So I can take care of Sam?"

"I'm gonna try," Carolyn said. "I have a feeling you just need some special medicine."

"Okay," Dean said. He turned his head away from the doctor as she uncovered him, playing with Sam, who Bobby had put up on the bed next to him. Sam was waving around a tongue depresser, successfully smacking Bobby in the face with it.

"Oi," Bobby said. "Watch yourself." Sam giggled. It was only the second time Bobby had heard him laugh.

"Oh, Bobby," Carolyn breathed a moment later, averting his attention back to Dean. The doctor had undone the buttons on Bobby's shirt and Dean's body lay exposed on the bed. Under the fluorescent lights, Bobby could see why she was alarmed.

The kid was skinny.

And not in the fast-metabolism, non-stop energy kind of way. He was thin in the way people got when they skipped meals at a time, when their ribs became sharp protrusions. Carolyn seemed almost hypnotized by the way Dean's hipbones rose and fell with each breath.

"I know," Bobby said, remembering his own shock when he had bathed and dressed the boy for the first time.

"This isn't from being sick," Carolyn said.

"I know," Bobby repeated.

"Is the little one this bad?"

"No," Bobby said. But he stripped Sam anyway, tickling the boy's stomach as the shirt was removed. Sam's ribs were prominent but Carolyn saw that he wasn't nearly as malnourished as his older brother.

"I give Sam food." Dean's voice was low, halfway between a whisper and rasp. He'd been watching the two adults the whole time and even though he was six years old, he wasn't stupid. They both turned to look at him. "When there isn't enough," Dean explained. "I give Sam the food."

"Hunter's kids," Bobby explained, however lame it sounded. Carolyn took a deep breath and nodded. Bobby had told her all about the supernatural world when his wife Karen had died. Since then, she'd been his go-to medical professional on cases where his own stockpile of supplies wasn't good enough. Cases like these. Yet, in all the years, he had never brought her a child. And now he had shown up with two? She'd never seen Bobby talk to a kid, let alone bring one to the hospital.

The clatter of tongue depresser against floor brought her out of her musings.

"Uh-oh," Sam said, turning to Bobby. "Uh-oh."

"Yep," Bobby said. "You should be more careful, huh?" Sam scooted toward his brother as Carolyn pulled out her stethoscope. "Uh-oh," he told Dean, who had it in him to smile.

"Sam's favorite words, I'm discovering," Bobby told Carolyn. "He don't say much." Carolyn looked thoughtful as she listened to Dean's chest. She helped him lean forward and braced his shoulders when he coughed loudly. Sam reached out a tiny hand and started rubbing Dean's bare back.

"I know it hurts, buddy," Carolyn said as Dean whimpered. She wiped saliva from his chin with the sheet. "Can you remember how long you've been coughing?" Dean squeezed his eyes shut shook his head. Carolyn motioned to the nurse who had just come in.

"Let's give him 100% O2," she said before turning back to Dean. "This nifty mask is going to make your lungs feel so much better."

"No," Dean panted, struggling out of her grip. Despite his weakened condition, the kid writhed enough to slip out of the doctor's grip. He made it as far as the other side of the bed before Bobby caught him around the chest with one arm.

"Hold up, kiddo," he said as Dean twisted against him. "Where you going?"

"Home," Dean said, lashing out with his feet. "I want to go home!" The shout brought on yet another coughing fit and he doubled over so that the only thing holding him up was Bobby's forearm. The nurse swooped in and attached an oxygen mask.

"Deep breaths, buddy," Carolyn said. "It's scary, I know." Bobby's heart broke a little as Dean gulped down the precious oxygen, tears running down his cheeks. The kid was frightened and exhausted and didn't seem to understand they were just trying to help. The whole scenario reminded Bobby they were dealing with a little boy and not a wounded animal. He hugged Dean tight to him, trying to lessen the spasms rippling through the kid's muscles.

"Wanna go home," Dean mumbled a few minutes later. Bobby was no sitting on the bed and Dean was curled up in his arms, refusing to even glance at the doctor. Sam was sprawled out over the bed so that his head was cushioned on Dean's feet and he was swinging the tongue depressor back and forth as if it was the most interesting object he'd ever seen.

"I know, I know," Bobby said. Without thinking, he brushed a lock of sweaty hair away from Dean's face. When he got better, the boy was getting a proper haircut. "But Carolyn here is gonna make you feel better. So you can take care of Sam, remember?" Dean sniffed but nodded into Bobby's shirt. He crawled back toward the doctor and allowed her to start an IV, keeping his eyes training on Bobby the whole time. The Hunter tried to give him a reassuring smile but if he was being honest, those green eyes made his skin crawl just the tiniest bit. They weren't innocent in the slightest.

"Sam, how old are you?" Carolyn asked, moving onto the younger Winchester. Sam ignored her. She glanced up at Bobby and tried again. "Sam, how many are you?" She held up five fingers. Sam didn't look at her until prompted to by Dean. Then he just stared. After a moment he ducked his head down against Dean's body, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Told ya he don't talk," Bobby said.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," the doctor said. "Moving around is bound to shake any kid up, maybe enough to delay speech. His dad will want to get him tested if he's not talking by three."

"And Dean?" Bobby said.

"You're probably right with the pneumonia," she continued. "We'll take some chest x-rays and fix him up with antibiotics. And definitely some IV nutrients. His body can't heal with how malnourished he is." She leaned over and tickled Sam on his stomach. "Hey Sam, can I take a listen to your chest?" The toddler squirmed out of her reach.

"Sam, be good," Dean said as if he hadn't thrown a similar tantrum not ten minutes ago. "It's okay."

"No," Sam said, standing up on the mattress and tottering toward Bobby. He flung himself around the man, the warmth from his naked skin leeching into Bobby. "No!" he wailed.

"Looks like you've got yourself a friend," Carolyn said, eyebrows raised. Dean was also looking rather astonished. He'd never seen his little brother throw himself at anyone else.

"Let's let the nice lady take a listen," Bobby said. "And after that we can go get ice cream," he added quickly as Sam screwed up his face to shout again.

"Hungwy?" he asked, looking around the room as if the ice cream cone was going to pop out of the wall. It never failed.

"You know I'd really like to keep Dean here for observation," Carolyn said a few minutes later after she had examined Sam. Like his brother he was thin but unlike his brother, he showed just the beginnings signs of malnourishment. She was more concerned about how frightened he seemed to be when she touched him, or even looked at him.

Bobby sighed as he tugged the t-shirt back over Sam's head. He'd blown up one of the rubber gloves into a balloon and Sam was batting it against the bed, giggling when Dean swatted it with his hands to make it float into the air. Sam's legs were resting on top of his brother's so that the two were just a tangle of limbs. Like their father had said, there was something odd about how close they were.

"I was afraid you were gonna say that. I don't much like the idea of leaving Dean here. I trust you, but it'd be wrong. Not when his Daddy thinks he's with me." Carolyn nodded and bit her lip. The six year old was in severe condition, but she wans't going to argue with Bobby.

"How about just leaving him for a few hours? Let him rest and get some nutrition and antibiotics. Then come back and see how he's doing."

"I don't think you can separate these two," Bobby said, cap twisting in his hands. Something deep in the pit of his stomach warned him it wasn't a good idea. Having them on different floors of the house had been struggle enough, what with Sam feeling the need to see his brother every five minutes. "They're both gonna go ballistic."

"I'm going to give Dean a light sedative anyway," Carolyn said, waving aside his concern. "To help his lungs and get him through the tests without making him nervous. I'm sure you can handle an upset two-year-old." Bobby had his doubts, ones that were justified when he lifted Sam off the bed.

"Down," Sam demanded at once. His little body reached so far out toward the bed that he almost fell out of Bobby's arms.

"Nope," Bobby said. "Look here, a lollipop!" Sam busied himself trying to undo the wrapper while Carolyn gave Dean the sedative. He felt bad snowing the kid like this but he told himself it was for Dean's own good, that he wouldn't remember much of this in a few days. Still, it was hard to step to the other side of the curtain, as if the thin piece of fabric was now a wall between him and Dean. He didn't like this one bit; it felt like his was missing something as he took a few steps toward the door.

"Dee?" Sam asked, looking over his shoulder, spraying Bobby's stubble with sticky spit as he did so. "Dee?"

"We'll come back," Bobby promised, walking more quickly now. Sam tensed in his arms and the lollipop dropped from his fingers; Bobby didn't stop to pick it up.

"Dee!" Sam screamed just as they cleared the Emergency Room doors and people were starting to stare. Bobby winced; it went against his Hunter nature to draw any extra attention to himself. People around town didn't exactly know him well and the last thing he wanted was any story getting around about him and a wailing kid. He didn't need to add suspected kidnapper to his profile.

"Deeeeeeeeee!"

The incessant shrieks had the intensity of fire sirens, Bobby's head reeling as he struggled to snap Sam into his carseat. The toddler's back was arched, his hands formed into tiny fists and beating ufpon Bobby's shoulders, face, chest, wherever he could reach. By the time Bobby stepped back, he was breathing heavy, as if he'd just gone a round with a wendigo. But no, just an irate two-year-old who was currently clawing at the windows as his face turned more and more purple.

"Give me strength," Bobby muttered. To the sky, the ground, whoever the hell was listening.

He'd take all the help he could get at the moment, heaven and hell be damned.

* * *

 **A/N:** I keep saying I'm going to end this but I have half a notion to write Sam and Bobby shopping at the Salvation Army. And the market. Can you imagine this little Sam putting literally everything he saw into his mouth? If you guys are still into it let me know, I don't want to get boring!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Here I am! I did not abandon you.

* * *

Sam was still screaming his head off fifteen minutes later as Bobby pulled the truck into the market parking lot. If Bobby's head weren't about to explode, he would have been impressed. The kid had quite the lung capacity. He switched off the engine and twisted around in his seat. Sam's face was screwed up in anger, his cheeks covered in tears and snot, eyes closed as he let out another howl of fury.

"Deeeeeeee!"

"Sam, we're going to get some food, then we'll see your brother."

"NO!" Sam yelled, tiny legs kicking in his carseat. "Dee!" Bobby sighed and flopped against his seat. He had half a mind to just get out of the truck and leave the kid here while he got the food. But the parking lot was half full and there was a high probability of someone seeing Sam and calling the cops. Which Bobby really didn't need. Finally, he got out of the truck and opened Sam's door.

"Sam, if you stop being crying, I promise we can go see your brother." Sam's eyes rolled toward him and his breath hitched, letting Bobby know he was about to scream again. "I promise ya that if you come inside the store and show me what food you want, then we can go see Dean." Bobby grabbed the action figure from where it had been thrown to the floor of the truck and waved it in front of Sam. "We'll be fast like superheroes, okay?"

"Dee," Sam whined, but his eyes were fixed on his toy and a second later, he reached for it.

"Okay superhero," Bobby said, unbuckling Sam and lifting him out of the truck. The plan had been to put Sam on the ground but it became clear that the toddler was not about to let go of the Hunter. His fingers dug into Bobby's back, his legs wrapped around his waist.

"Dee," Sam mumbled once they were in the store. The word was like a pacifier to the child and as long as he wasn't screaming it, Bobby didn't care.

"Okay, kiddo, you have to walk or ride," he said. "I need my hands so I can buy us food."

Sam allowed Bobby to transfer him to ground.

"Okay," Bobby said, pushing the cart. "What should we buy?"

"Bye-bye?" Sam said, looking worried.

"No," Bobby said quickly. "I meant what food should we get to bring home?"

"Hungwy," Sam said, seeming to realize where they were and just how much food he was surrounded by. Bobby didn't know that the only places the Winchesters shopped for food were gas stations. Sam had never seen so much food in one place.

The toddler reached for a bunch of bananas, taking no notice when the one he was actually holding ripped away from the other three and landed on the ground.

"Nana," he said, holding it out to Bobby, who was scooping the others from the floor and putting them in the cart.

"Yep," Bobby said. "Ba-nan-a."

"Nana," Sam said, holding the fruit against his stomach and digging into the tough skin with tiny fingers.

"Oh no," Bobby said, snatching it away. "We have to pay for it first."

"Uh-oh?" Sam asked, expression innocent. He poked the banana through the bars of the cart.

"Yes," Bobby said.

It went like that through the entire produce section. Sam toddled around and picked up everything he could get his hands on—which was most everything. Bobby spent more time grabbing food off the ground than actually picking stuff out to eat.

"What?" Sam asked as he held out a spiked purple something.

"I don't know," Bobby admitted. "Put it back." Instead, Sam eyed one of the spikes and then licked it, slurping at the end. He made a face, pinching his eyes shut and sticking out his tongue.

"No like," he said, putting the now-contaminated fruit back in the pile.

"No!" Bobby said, hurriedly putting it in the cart and looking around to make sure no one had noticed. "That's it," he said. "You have been banished to the cart. I ain't chasing after you all day." Sam didn't seem to mind riding in the front of the cart; in fact, Bobby noticed, the little boy gazed around like a king surveying his kingdom. At this angle he simply had to point to something and say "want!" and Bobby would examine it.

"Cranberry orange almond scones," he read aloud from a box Sam had pointed out. "No," he said, putting it back. Sam frowned. "You ain't an old lady," Bobby chastised. "Little boys don't need scones."

"Want," Sam said stubbornly.

"How about Cheerio's instead?" Bobby offered, remembering the tiny box Sam had eaten his first night with Bobby. The hazel eyes brightened.

"O's!"

"That's what I thought."

Once Sam was happily munching his way through the box of Cheerios – dropping them to the ground like a bread crumb trail – Bobby was able to get much of the shopping done without further licking incidents. There was a moment when Sam stuck his hand out in the pasta aisle and several boxes thumped to the floor but Bobby was just grateful it wasn't anything breakable.

"Okay, pipsqueak, I think we're all set here. We have enough food to feed an army."

"No hungwy," Sam said, swaying in his seat as Bobby pushed them through the parking lot.

"I bet you aren't. You had Cheerio's, a granola bar, and a cookie. I'm surprised you haven't exploded." Bobby recalled the frightened way Sam had shrunk into himself when the women behind the bakery counter had offered the child a cookie. Not a hint of the cookie-happy toddler Bobby was familiar with could be found. Instead, Sam scooted over to the far side of the cart and buried his face in Bobby's flannel when the Hunter drew near enough.

"He's shy, huh?" The lady said, handing the cookie over to Bobby.

"Yep," was all Bobby said.

Truth was, he reckoned it was a lot deeper than shyness. Sam had been trembling following the encounter, completely ignoring the treat Bobby held. The Hunter had ended up setting the toddler on his hip and absorbing the shaking until it ceased. Only then, with his legs wrapped around Bobby's waist and one arm holding onto the back of Bobby's shirt, did Sam relax enough to eat the cookie.

He seemed to have fully recovered though and was humming to himself.

"Dee?" he asked once Bobby started the truck.

"Yes," Bobby said. "We are going to get your brother and take the two of you back home. Maybe introduce you to Rummy, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam repeated, slurping on his fingers, oblivious to what he was agreeing to.

As Sam wasn't wearing shoes – still dressed only in one of Bobby's t-shirts – Bobby carried him into the hospital, one hand of wet, sticky fingers wrapped around his neck. The toddler smelled like cookies and Bobby's house and…something else he couldn't identify but would come to know in the next few days as 'little kid smell'. A combination of milk and baby powder even when neither of the objects were present. It wasn't sweet exactly, Bobby wasn't even sure if it smelled good, but it was the first sensory connection he would make to Sam Winchester.

He met Carolyn at the nurse's station where she as signing some papers in a folder.

"How's the patient?" he asked. She grimaced and flipped the folder shut. "What?" Bobby said. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Carolyn said. "Well, physically he's going to be okay. But we had some trouble keeping him in bed after the sedation wore off. He's not very cooperative."

The first thing Bobby saw when he pushed the curtain aside was blood. The blanket was thrown off the bed and red soaked into the white sheets like cranberry juice. There were smears of crimson on the floor and on the scrubs of a nurse who sat beside the bed, arms folded, eyes trained on the boy in the bed.

"Sam!" Dean scrabbled up and would have launched himself at Bobby if the nurse hadn't thrown a restraining arm around his chest, forcing him back down. "Let me go!" he shouted.

"Go, go!" Sam echoed, shrieking in Bobby's arms, almost twisting himself completely out of them only to be caught by Bobby at the last second. He deposited Sam on the bed where the toddler crawled straight into Dean's outstretched arms.

"I'm here," he heard Dean whisper. "I won't leave you. I'm here." Sam burrowed under his brother's arms and laid his cheek on Dean's chest so that the older boy's chin rested on Sam's messy flop of hair. Sam stuck his thumb in his mouth and closed his eyes while Dean lifted those green eyes and glared at Bobby.

"You okay?" Bobby asked, one eye on the boys and the other still trailing over the bloody mess of the room.

"I'm fine," Dean said, putting as much of a snarl as a six year old could into his words. "You stole Sammy."

"I didn't steal nobody," Bobby said. It took effort to remain calm as he accepted he bedside chair from the nurse. This close, he could see that Dean's right arm was also painted crimson and that a slow trickle of blood was coming from the back of his hand.

"You pulled your IV out." It wasn't a question.

"You stole Sam," Dean answered back. Bobby couldn't hold back a long, deep sigh. He wiped the cap off his head and flipped it over in his hands a few times, buying time to gather the right words. What did you say to a suspicious six year old? Dean Winchester already knew the world was full of secrets and lies, how was Bobby supposed to convince him that he was telling the truth, that he wasn't out to hurt him?

When he looked back up, the unblinking green eyes had been joined by a softer pair of hazel ones that watching him rather curiously.

"Look," the Hunter said quietly. "I haven't done anything bad since your father left you on my stoop, have I? I've given you food and a bed with blankets. I even brought you here," he waved a hand around, "when I knew you were getting pretty sick. And," he added as Dean's mouth opened to retort, "if I had wanted to steal your brother for real, I would have done it before now."

Bobby knew it was this last confession that caused the minute relaxation of Dean's shoulders because it would have had the same effect on him. The kid didn't need sugar coating or half-truths, he needed to hear it like it was. Then and there, Bobby promised himself he would always give it straight to Dean Winchester, no matter how painful or cruel or harsh the words were.

Passing between them now was the spark of some connection Bobby could feel deep in his chest. It was a throbbing that moved upwards, not unlike the welling in his throat when he knew he was about to cry. It wanted to force it's way out of him but instead, he patted Dean's leg under the blankets and stood, turning away before the boy could misunderstand the glassiness of his eyes.

Carolyn was watching from the door.

"He can go," she said, when Bobby cleared his throat. "I brought them some clothes to wear out." She gave him a wry smile. "I don't know how long that shirt of yours is going to last on Sam; it's already filthy."

"Thanks," he said. "Dean's really okay to go?" Her eyes narrowed and moved beyond him, over his shoulder to the bed.

"Yes," she said. "The antibiotics seemed to have kicked in fast and he perked up once we had fluids in him. He lost quite a bit of blood but I didn't want to give him a transfusion if I didn't have to. Doesn't seem to have done him much harm. Make sure he gets plenty of rest and make sure he drinks and eats properly. Otherwise you'll end up back here."

"Thanks, Caro," Bobby said. "I appreciate it."

"You're doing a good thing, Bobby. Karen would love it. She'd love _them."_

Bobby's cheeks burned as he thought of his late wife's desperation to have a child. He tried to see the boys the way she would have: not as Hunter's kids but as little ones starved for attention and affection. He felt Carolyn move past him and watched her begin dressing the boys, watched Sam hold tight onto his brother's hand but throw a glance over at Bobby and grin.

Bobby returned the smile on impulse but knew it was also coming from somewhere else, perhaps someone else. And he swore at that moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder and the softest graze of lips on his cheek.

* * *

 **A/N:** Anyone still out there? I'm thinking if I get enough interest (reviews, follows etc), I'll post another chapter because I have a cute idea :)


	5. Chapter 5

It took Dean all of two days out of the hospital before he decided for himself that he no longer needed to stay in bed all day. The first time Bobby caught the kid out of bed was when he was coming out of the bathroom on his way to make lunch for the boys and there was Dean, swaying in the doorway of his room, looking slightly nauseous.

"What are you doing?"

The guilty expression would have been comical if it hadn't been accompanied by a pale cheeks and a sweaty forehead. Bobby took the boy's small hand – small and fragile – and led him back to the bed, helping him onto the mattress. Dean had grown less wary of Bobby since the hospital, enough to let him touch him, but Bobby tried to keep a respectful distance. He didn't want to come on too strong too fast.

"You need to stay in bed," Bobby said, drawing the covers up only to have Dean kick them off again. The boy flopped over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.

"I'm bored!" came the muffled wail.

"Did you even look at the books I gave you?" Dean's head shook back and forth in the pillow.

"I don't like reading."

"Hmph," Bobby said. However much younger Sam was, the toddler absolutely adored whatever books Bobby gave him, even the boring adult ones on lore. The kid liked flipping pages back and forth and was careful with them in a way he wasn't with any other of Bobby's possessions.

"Let me make your brother some lunch before he gets into the brownies again and then we'll find you something you can do in bed, okay?" Dean groaned but rolled over and didn't complainer further. When Bobby checked in on him fifteen minutes, he was sleeping, one arm thrown over his face, the other curled around an extra pillow. The personality that had been muted by the sickness the past week was started to shine through. The boy was stubborn like his younger brother but much less shy. Less shy and less affectionate. Where Sam would throw himself at Bobby's legs or tug on his shirt hem to get the Hunter's attention, Dean would rather keep quiet until the Hunter noticed him. Bobby first learned through when Dean got sick again and Sam was downstairs watching TV. From the smell of the room and the congealed look of the vomit, Dean had been sitting rigidly in bed for a good while before Bobby had found him.

"Geez, Dean," he said, hurrying in. He opened the window to let in a blast of frigid air. "Why didn't you call for me?" The boy just sat there shivering, vomit on his chin, staring balefully at Bobby. Carefully, so he didn't get any of the mess on himself, Bobby stripped the blankets away from him and then peeled the sodden shirt off.

"C'mere," Bobby said without thinking and reached out his arms the way he did with Sam. Dean flinched away, dropping his gaze. Bobby went with it, picking the boy up under the armpits and settling him on his hip. Even as a six year old, the kid was lanky as hell, all skin and bones as his long legs wrapped around Bobby's waist. The Hunter could feel his cold toes curl into Bobby's lower back, the sharp protrusions of ribs digging into his gut.

"You might be more talkative than your brother but you ain't any less scared, are you?" Bobby said. Dean let out a huff of air and, taking Bobby by total surprise, rested his forehead in the hollow of Bobby's collarbone. With his free hand, Bobby collected the soil blankets.

"It's a wonder you even threw up so much. You've only had broth for," he cut himself off, staring into the sheets with a wrinkled nose. "That ain't broth. Are those…those are brownies aren't they?" He felt Dean grin against his neck. "That brother of yours has been sneaking you food, hasn't he?" Dean's grin widened and Bobby shook his head, carrying the boy into the bathroom for a bath. "You idjits."

After he got cleaned up, Bobby took Dean downstairs. The boy was still weak as all get out and couldn't walk the length of the living room without tiring so Bobby deposited him in the recliner chair, tucking blankets in around him.

"Dee!" shrieked Sam, the same way he did every single time he saw his brother. He launched himself off the floor, upending the plate full of crackers.

"Sammy, don't jump on me," Dean said, pushing the toddler off his legs. Sam was undeterred. He turned his attention to Bobby who was situating a pillow behind Dean's back. Sam tugged on the hem of Bobby's shirt.

"Out," he said.

"Okay," Bobby said but didn't do anything. Sam tugged on his shirt again.

"Out."

"He wants to go outside," Dean translated.

"It's too cold," Bobby said. "You'll freeze." Sam blinked, stroking the plastic of his action figure. He smiled placidly at the man.

"Out."

"Cold," Bobby argued, swinging the toddler into his arms and letting him look out the picture window that was half obstructed by the couch. "Look," Bobby said, "it's snowing." He pretended to shiver. "Brrr. Cold!" Sam leaned forward in Bobby's arms and pressed his nose to the cold glass.

"Brrr," he repeated, his little lips vibrating. Bobby chuckled. The kid still wasn't speaking much, but he had picked up a couple words from Bobby. The ones he did know like 'Dee' and 'uh-oh' he repeated until Bobby was hearing them in his sleep.

"I wanna go outside too," Dean said, twisting around in the chair.

"No," Bobby said, setting Sam down. The toddler clambered onto the couch and reached toward the window. Bobby grabbed him by the collar to make sure he didn't topple over the back of the couch. "Neither of you are going outside."

"Brrr," Sam said. Bobby shoved the couch a couple feet to one side so Sam could reach it without climbing on anything. Right away, he stuck his nose back to the glass and a grubby hand joined it. The window fogged over with each little puff of breath.

"Oh," Sam said, mesmerized by the falling snowflakes. "Out." Bobby rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen to wash dishes. It seemed like there was always something to wash or clean now. He hadn't had time to sit down with a case since the boys arrived. He didn't blame them a bit but he did miss the peace and quiet of his old life.

Rummy was standing at the back door, a fine dusting a snow collecting on his black coat which made it seem as if the Rottweiler had a bad case of dandruff. He scratched the door when Bobby walked past. The Hunter opened it a crack.

"If I let you in, are you gonna behave?" The meeting between Rummy and Sam had not gone so well. The big dog got too excited for his own good and knocked into the shy Sam, who had started crying on the spot. A second later, Dean was hollering from upstairs, wanting to know why his baby brother was screaming. If that wasn't enough, Rummy had decided to commiserate with the Winchesters and had taken up a pitiful howl that nearly split Bobby's eardrums.

He hadn't let the dog back in since, not when the boys were awake.

Thankfully, this time the Rottweiler was calmer and just sniffed around the kitchen and under the table, gathering the generous amounts of scraps and crumbs Sam always dropped. He didn't even bat an eye when the toddler came careening into the room, giving the animal a large berth.

"Wagna jo," he said to Bobby.

"What?"

"Wagna jo!" Sam garbled, sounding like he was making up his own words. This has been happening a lot. The kid would say something and it would completely go over Bobby's head, which frustrated both of them. "Dee en boo wagna jo?" he asked, turning his face up to Bobby hopefully, brown eyes shining.

"Dee?" Bobby said, repeating the only word he could pick out. Sam nodded enthusiastically and brushed the hair out of his eyes.

"En boo. Wagna jo?" Bobby bit his lip and turned away. "Uh-oh?" Sam said, frowning.

"No," Bobby said. "Go watch TV." He could feel the tantrum about to hit even though his back was turned, the way he would know if a bad storm was coming before he got out of bed in the morning.

"No!" Sam wailed, throwing himself onto the floor. The action figure went skittering across the floor and Rummy leapt after it. "Noooooo," he sobbed, rolling back and forth at Bobby's feet.

"Hey," Bobby said. "Sam, you can't throw a fit just because I don't understand ya." But the logic and reasoning was lost on the two-year-old as he continued to cry.

"What did you do?" came Dean's suspicious voice. Sam was so upset he ignored his brother as Dean bent down and put his face down next to Sam's.

"It's okay," he crooned. "It's okay, Sammy. Shhh."

"I didn't do nothing," Bobby protested, sitting back on his heels. He felt ridiculous justifying himself to a small child but the way Dean was glaring at him… "He was trying to tell me something and I couldn't understand him."

"That's not his fault," Dean snapped.

"I know it ain't," Bobby said then stopped himself. He was _not_ going to argue with a six-year-old; some things were not worth the loss of dignity. The Hunter stood, feeling all of a sudden that the kitchen was much too small for three bodies to be in it at once. In fact, the whole house, despite it's size, felt too small. The air inside was thick, suffocating. And in that moment, Bobby understood Sam's need to go outside all too well.

"We're going out," Bobby said.

"Wh-what?" Dean said, looking taken aback. Sam sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Wagna jo?" he said.

"Wanna go," Dean said when Bobby looked to him.

"Should have known," grumbled Bobby, but managed to smile when Sam shot him a watery look.

It took a minute to get the boys bundled up. Sam yammered the entire time and kept wandering off to point excitedly out the window. "Out," he told Dean again and again. To his brother's credit, Dean kept nodding over and over again, never getting frustrated with his brother.

"I don't know how you do it, champ," Bobby said as he wrapped Dean up in a blanket. The boy's face was pale but the green eyes were regaining more brilliance as the days went by. It shocked Bobby how much they stood out against Dean's fair skin and freckled nose; he certainly hadn't gotten them from his father.

"He's my brother," Dean said. "He ain't got anyone else but me."

And, as Bobby watched Sam turn away from the window and dash toward them, his bangs falling in front of his shining eyes, he understood. He understood that the two year old's entire world was wrapped up in the blanket Karen's mother had gotten them as a wedding gift. That trying to expand that world was trying to stretch an old rubber band, hoping it wouldn't break before you got it long enough. There was no reason for Sam to trust or talk to him. The boy's world did not encompass vampires or ghouls or monsters that could rip a human heart out in less than two seconds. Only his brother, and a black 1967 Impala.

That thought made Bobby feel inexplicably lonely.

xxx

"Hungwy," Sam said five minutes, just as they had gotten settled in the truck. Dean was swathed in blankets and nestled close enough to Sam's carseat that the toddler could bounce his action figure along Dean's blanket.

"You just had lunch," Bobby said, glancing in the rearview mirror. He was pretty sure there were still crumbs sticking to his cheeks.

"'i cwea," Sam said.

"He wants ice cream," Dean said.

"You are nuts. How about some hot chocolate instead?"

"What?" Sam asked, turning up one hand. He glanced at Dean. "What?"

"Sammy's never had hot chocolate," Dean told Bobby. "But my mom used to make it for me. In a pan on the stove."

"Hot chocolate it is then," Bobby said. He was glad when Dean turned to answer Sam's question because he didn't think he was exactly qualified to talk to a kid about his dead mother. What if Dean started asking if there was heaven? Or worse, hell?

"You boy-," Bobby cut himself off as he drove past a large sign he had never noticed much before. It stood outside an old Victorian home that was painted a garish shade of teal – a color that made Bobby feel as though he needed to prove his manhood by shooting something or beating his fists on his chest. But it was the sign that made him pause. Spelled out in big block letters were the words SALVATION ARMY and then in smaller letters under that "Apparel for Men, Women, and Children of All Ages."

"Pit stop," Bobby said as he pulled in.

"No!" Sam whined and kicked the back of the passenger seat in front of him.

"Hold your horses," Bobby said. "Dontcha think it's about time you got new clothes? You two can't go around wearing my shirts all the time, can you?"

"Dee," Sam answered, and pulled his brother's hair. Dean yelped and pinched Sam's arm. Bobby struggled not to roll his eyes. First, he unhooked Sam from the torture contraption that was his car seat.

"Stand right there," Bobby said as the toddler wriggled out of his seat and stood in the back of the truck. Next, he picked Dean up in the blankets, shivering once when Dean's chilly fingers pressed into his neck. "Okay, pipsqueak," he said to Sam, motioning the little boy over to him. Sam settled happily on Bobby's other hip, one hand on his action figure and the other stuck in his mouth, slurping away. Bobby considered it a great feat that he managed to make it to the front door without dropping either of them.

The only thing Bobby saw when he opened the heavy oak door was clothes. Clothes on racks, clothes in buckets, clothes hanging from hooks on the walls, clothes in piles on the floor. They were everywhere. Sam kicked to be let down while Dean burrowed further into Bobby's arms.

"'i cwea," Sam said, keeping one hand on Bobby's jeans and wandering out a couple steps. "'no i cwea," he told Bobby.

"No," agreed Bobby, pinching the arm of a pink furry coat as if it was aiming to bite him. "There's no ice cream here."

"Bye-bye," Sam said, walking with purpose toward the door they had just come through. Using both hands, he tugged at the door handle, determined to leave this place behind. If there weren't any sweets here, he didn't want to be either.

"Not so fast," Bobby said. "We gotta get you some clothes." This time Sam turned up both hands.

"No here," he said. Before Bobby could answer, a voice came from behind him.

"Can I help you find anything?"

An older woman stood in the foyer with them, having snuck up on Bobby while he was dealing with the toddler. He cursed himself for not being more vigilant but he didn't suppose this friendly looking lady was harmful in any way. Still, he didn't like the feeling of being pulled in several directions at once, something he'd noticed happening ever since the boys had arrived.

"Oh! Who's this?" the woman asked, bending down a little to get a closer look at Sam who had moved to his safe place behind Bobby's legs. Dean stiffened as she got within arm's distance of his brother.

"Sam," Bobby said. "He's, uh, a little shy." Like in the grocery store, he could feel the little boy shaking while gripping onto the rough folds of his jeans. "We actually need some clothes for him and his brother here, Dean."

"Yes?" The woman said, letting the word linger as a question. Though she had more wrinkles than Bobby, she seemed sturdy, dependable. A truth South Dakota woman. Dark hair hung to her shoulders, offsetting a pale complexion. Her eyes, though, were cheerful. She glanced at Dean.

"Hey, there," she said to him. The older boy coughed in her face and turned away, reaching an arm down to Sam's hair

"They're both pretty shy," Bobby said. She wanted more information, he could tell, but Bobby had never liked people prying into his personal life, even before the Hunting life. He wasn't going to let anyone pry into Sam or Dean's either. He wondered if he should be embarrassed about the boys' behavior, but decided that they had every reason to be shy. "You got anything to fit them? They're mostly skin and bones. "

The woman had straightened back up though her eyes lingered on Sam who had yet to reappear.

"I'm Martha Mills," she said. "You're Bobby Singer, right?" The Hunter blinked and she smiled. "You fixed my daughter's car when it broke down about a year ago. Hasn't had a problem with it since. I remember you but I didn't know you had kids."

"They ain't mine," Bobby said, taking off his baseball cap and fiddling with it. The words felt strange coming out of his mouth and he didn't know why. They _weren't_ his. Hell, he barely knew them. "I'm just looking after them for a spell. While their dad gets back on his feet."

"Well, kids are just fantastic," she said, reaching out a hand to pat Sam on the head. He drew away and her hand fell back to her side, though she didn't seem upset. "My daughter's all grown up by now. She thinks she is anyhow. She told me just last night on the phone that she wants to go into law enforcement. And I said, Jody, I just don't think that's a smart idea for a good looking young woman like yourself. She'd be better off getting married and raising a proper family. Don't you agree?"

'Er, I don't know," Bobby said, rubbing at his beard. Dean hiccupped and wrapped his legs tighter around the Hunter's waist while Sam was crouched down next to several pair of shoes, pulling them off the rack by their laces. "Don't know much about kids, to be honest," he said. Martha opened her mouth to give what was probably helpful advice but Bobby beat her to it. "Do ya have any kids clothes?

"Of course, of course," Martha said. "There are three rooms upstairs, one is girls, one is boys, and the very back one – the smallest – has our toy donations. Just give a holler if you need help." She winked at Dean, who had glanced around at the word toy.

"We'll just take a look then," Bobby said. He bent down and tucked one of Sam's hands into his own, leading the toddler up the stairs. He swung shut the baby gate at the top and let go of Sam's hand. Now that there was no stranger in sight, he wandered away from Bobby.

"This way, pipsqueak," Bobby said, trying to shepherd the boy into the room that seemed full of blue clothing. He squealed with delight as he caught sight of a fuzzy scarf hanging from a hook and pulled it down.

"Okay," Bobby said, clearing a winged back armchair free of a pile of denim and placing Dean it, making sure his blanket was wrapped tight. The boy's eyes were wide as he gazed at the cluttered room. Like downstairs, clothes were strewn everywhere. They hung from racks, yes, but also from hooks driven into the walls and ceiling, from clothes trees and even from the curtain rods.

"Boo!" Sam said from the doorway a few minutes later. Bobby turned, a pair of miniature jeans in one hand.

"Boo to you too," he chuckled. "Very intimidating." He scooped up a second pair of jeans and held them out to the toddler. "Sam, come and see if these fit you. Dean, I think these shirts will work for you."

"Boo," Sam repeated, holding onto Bobby's shoulder as the Hunter pulled the jeans up.

"Yeah, this will work," he said. "Bit big but," he shrugged, "once I get some more meals in ya, you'll be growing like a weed."

"Boo."

"That only works when you sneak up on someone," Bobby said, stripping off the jeans and looking for similar sized sweatpants.

"I think," Dean said, pushing off his blanket and climbing down off the chair. "He's trying to say your name."

"Yeah?" Bobby said, trying not to show how excited he was. So far when he wanted something, Sam had just whined or tugged on his clothes. "You saying my name, pipsqueak?" Sam grinned and grabbed hold of one of Bobby's fingers, tugging. Sam babbled nonsense down the short hallway, practically bouncing on the wooden floors.

"'oo en oys dee voom voom."

Dean darted ahead of them and disappeared around the last doorway.

"Wow!" Bobby heard him say. "Uncle Bobby come look at this!"

An unfamiliar thrill of pleasure ran through him when he heard Dean call him Uncle Bobby. Was this what Martha had meant when she said kids were fantastic? The little bloom of joy grew larger as he stepped into the toy room and Sam shrieked with happiness.

"Sammy, look at this!" Dean said, dumping over a basket of blocks and starting to construct a tower. They were made of roughly hewn wood, worn around the edges, but Dean didn't care. He stacked them carefully. Sam only had eyes for a small cardboard box. He clutched it to his chest.

"Boo," he called over to Bobby. "Voom, voom," he said plopping down and pulling the box into his lap.

"Wow, look at those," Bobby said, as Sam pulled out tiny toy cars, complete with turning wheels. Sam ran one over his palm then held it out to Dean.

"Voom, voom," he said.

"It's a car," Dean said matter of factly, still stacking blocks. Sam looked up at Bobby, perhaps for reassurance.

"Can you say car?" Bobby asked. Sam looked back at the toy in his hand and then set it carefully at his side. The lined up the entire contents of the box one by one. "That's okay," Bobby said. "You don't got to say it right away."

"Can we get them, Uncle Bobby?" Dean said without looking up. A second later he seemed to realize what had come out of his mouth. He blushed. "Nevermind," he said. "We don't need them. Sir."

"Yes, you do need them," Bobby said with no hesitation. He crouched down in between the two boys. "And Dean? I think I like it when you call me Uncle Bobby."

* * *

 **A/N:** I only have one more planned chapter (when John comes back) but I'm open to suggestions if there's something you guys would like to see in this 'verse. I won't do all of them but if there's something that I think would fit, I'll see about writing it. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

A week with the boys slid into two and before Bobby could flip the calendar by the coffee maker, a month had gone by. He'd heard from John a couple times but the other Hunter managed to hang up without answering anything about his whereabouts or just when he'd be back to collect his children.

It was a Tuesday afternoon and Bobby was in the kitchen, one hand sticky with peanut butter he was spreading on crackers for Sam and Dean's snack. Sam was sitting at his feet, head buried in the pots and pans cabinet, happily thwacking each one with a wooden spoon. Dean was…elsewhere. As soon as he was well enough to walk on his own, the boy had started investigating the house, getting into nooks and crannies all over, finding hiding places that even Bobby had forgotten about. A week in, Bobby had padlocked both the basement and the attic; he'd found Dean jimmying the basement lock with a straightened paperclip. It was the first time he raised his voice at either of them.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Bobby said when he had gone to investigate the scratching noises. Dean dropped the paperclip and backed up against the door, eyes wide. Sam was down for a nap and Bobby had been trying to get some research done. He should have noticed it was too quiet.

"Nothing," Dean said.

"Don't lie to me," Bobby growled, taking one of the boy's skinny arms and hauling him away from the basement door.

"I'm s-sorry," Dean said, feet stumbling over themselves in haste to keep up with Bobby.

"I lock those doors for a reason," Bobby said.

"I know," Dean said, eyes firmly on the floor. Bobby let go of him when they were in the living room and Dean looked as if he wanted to make a break for it, but he just stood there.

"You know? Then why'd you go looking for trouble? Do you also know how much I've given up by taking you and your brother in? How much it costs to feed you two, not to mention the clothes?"

Dean tugged at the hem of his perfectly fitting batman shirt.

"Are you going to hit me?" he asked without lifting his face. The question made Bobby take an extra breath.

"What? No! I'm not gonna hit ya." For the first time, Dean met Bobby's eyes and the Hunter could see they were fearful. "No," Bobby repeated, sighing. He swept a hand over his face. "I'll never hit you. Ever. I'm just…upset."

"Do you want a drink?" Dean asked, edging towards the kitchen where he knew beer sat in the fridge. "I can get you one."

"No," Bobby said, sharply enough to stop Dean moving any further. "I just want you to understand why I'm mad."

"'Cause I was bad," Dean said in a tone that bordered on incredulity, as if he couldn't believe Bobby couldn't figure this out for himself. Bobby shook his head.

"Because I locked up things that could hurt you. I don't want you to get hurt, Dean."

"Because then I'll have to go back to the hospital." It wasn't a question.

"Because I care about you," Bobby amended. "But yeah, I don't want you to go back to the hospital either."

"Okay," Dean said, but Bobby could tell he didn't really understand. He let the boy slink off to his and Sam's room; he couldn't think of a better way to explain it to Dean.

It bothered him, that after taking care of him, making sure he didn't die, after buying him clothes and food, Dean still didn't understand that Bobby liked him. Maybe loved him. He thought maybe this was what it was like to love a child but he had nothing to compare it to so he wasn't sure.

"Aw done," Sam said, tugging on Bobby's shirt, wooden spoon still in hand.

"Almost," Bobby said, now slicing up a banana and sticking a piece on top of each cracker. "Here," he said, handing down a plain cracker. Sam nibbled on the edges as he followed Bobby and the two plates of snacks toward the table.

"Dean!" Bobby called. "Come get some grub!"

A second later, Dean came scampering down the stairs, hands on both walls to keep himself steady. He hopped onto a chair, up on his knees.

"How come Sam got more than me?" he complained.

"He didn't," Bobby said. "You both got the same number."

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Oh, okay," Dean said, stuffing one of the crackers into his mouth. Sam was still working on the plain one Bobby had given to him although right now it was more of a soggy piece of cardboard. The Hunter knew that there was no way Sam was going to finish all seven crackers but he'd learned in the past four weeks to always make things equal between the brothers.

"What were you doing upstairs?" Bobby asked. "You been quiet today."

"Playing," Dean said. "I built a ramp for Sammy's cars."

"Caws?" Sam said, looking up from licking the peanut butter off his second cracker.

"Yeah!" Dean said. "It makes them go real fast." He picked up his third cracker. "Uncle Bobby, do you wanna play with me after snacks?"

"Wish I could," Bobby said. "But I got work to do."

"Shooting people?"

Bobby blanched. Most of the time, Dean acted like a normal kid and Bobby forgot about the Hunter blood in him. Then he said something like this and Bobby remembered John Winchester.

"No," Bobby said. "Cars. All the cars in the back are broken and some of them I'm going to try and fix. I ain't been doing it much because I took some time off to watch you idjits."

"I can help," Dean said at once, sliding off his chair.

"You ain't doing anything until you finish your food," Bobby said, pointing to the chair. Dean's eyes narrowed, trying to decide whether to argue or not, but a few seconds later he was sitting again. The kid was going to be a handful later down the road, more of one than he was now.

It was forty-five minutes later by the time both boys had finished their snack and Bobby had wiped every smear of peanut butter from their sticky fingers and faces. Bobby didn't know why cleaning them was such a big idea but Sam squealed with displeasure every time Bobby brought a wet washcloth near him and it always ended in tears. Tears that were gone within five seconds of Bobby releasing the boy.

"Okay," Bobby said once they had all donned their jackets. Dean was in a pair of beat up sneakers but for Sam, Martha had found the tiniest of rain boots, bright red and shiny. The toddler was currently trying to pull off the fleece mittens Bobby had stuck on him. "Are you two ready to go outside?" Both nodded. Rummy was dancing beside Bobby; it was quite the contest on who was most excited. "Now, you can't touch any of the cars, you hear? They are dangerous. Do you know what dangerous means?" Sam was busy tugging at his left mitten again but Dean nodded solemnly.

"It means it can kill you. Like vampires and werewolves." Bobby shook his head in slight disbelief.

"Okay. No touching. Let's go."

There were plenty of reasons Bobby hadn't let the boys near the scrapyard yet. He'd let them play all they wanted in the front yard, but not near the cars. Not until now. He hadn't yet admitted it to himself in the light of time, but at night, when the boys were asleep down the hall, he had visions of people—no, _things_ —coming out of the woods behind the scrapyard when his back was turned. When he blinked he saw a car falling on Dean, or Sam getting his tiny fingers stuck in a piece of metal Bobby couldn't pry apart.

Dean and Rummy were out the door so fast they almost knocked each other over. Sam came slower, his toddle matching Bobby's slight limp from a Hunt a few years ago. Bobby was surprised but pleased when he felt a small, pudgy hand slip into his own and looked down to find Sam beaming up at him.

"Boo an' me," he said solemnly. They got to the deck stairs and Bobby swung Sam up in his arms where he could still smell the peanut butter on Sam's breath.

"Uncle Bobby, look!" Dean was crouched down, both hands working feverishly to form a snow ball out of a mound of slush. He launched the dripping snowball into the air and it landed with a wet plop. Sam roared with laughter and Bobby let him down.

"Sammy, watch!" Dean instructed, letting another snowball fly. One of Sam's mittens was already off but he dug into an adjacent pile of slush with enthusiasm, not even seeming to feel the cold.

"Dean, watch yer brother while I go into the shop over there," he said, pointing to the barn about fifty yards away.

"Okay."

"I mean it," Bobby said and Dean looked up, the tip of his nose pink. "You watch him close."

"I will," Dean promised.

"And you holler if you need me."

Bobby had forgotten how much he loved cars. The fascination started as a boy, in the woods behind his house, woods that were not unlike the ones bordering his property now. When his father was at his worst – which was almost always – Bobby would ease the back door open and head for the trees. There were times when he was caught, when he didn't make it across the backyard quick enough. But the times when he did, he knew he was safe as soon as he was under the leaves.

When he was ten or eleven, he'd started wandering farther, started staying out later. It was around then he found his first junker. A blue Volkswagen Beetle with flowers growing through it's tires, weeds curling around the backseat. The floor was missing on the passenger side, but the steering wheel was intact and dials for the radio still twisted under his fingers.

It had taken all of his ten-year-old might to wrench open the rusty driver side door but he had, and clambered into the seat like it was a throne.

Ever since then, he was most comfortable in cars, preferably behind the wheel, but not always. Karen had liked to drive also and he had spent hours in the passenger seat of whatever vehicle they had around that month, the window rolled down so he could hang his arm out the side.

"Uncle Bobby, whatcha doing?"'

The Hunter was in deep—both with his thoughts and under the hood of the car—and he jumped when Dean's voice floated toward him.

"Uncle Bobby?"

"What are you doing in here?" Bobby said, readjusting his baseball cap and backing out of the car.

"I wanted to see what you were doing." Dean leaned forward, keeping his feet planted on the ground, and yet peering at the mess under the hood.

"Where's yer brother? You're supposed to be watching him." A flash of irritation glanced off Dean's face.

"I am. He's right over there playing with his cars." Sure enough, Sam was in the distance, butt on the ground, zooming his cars back and forth over the gravel. Bobby watched as the toddler cocked back an arm and then launched an orange Corvette into the air. He couldn't hear Sam's following giggle but he sure saw it.

"Alright," Bobby said. Dean had come up to the front of the car, tiny fingers gripping the edge. Bobby brushed them away. "You'll lose your hand," he grumbled. Dean whipped them out of sight, folding his fingers into each other behind his back. He nodded at a large structure directly in front of them.

"I know what that is," he boasted.

"Yeah?"

"It's the engine," Dean said. He frowned. "It's not as big as the 'Pala's though."

"No, it ain't," Bobby said, his own lips turning up in amusement. He pointed at something attached to the engine. "Do you know what that is?"

"The trans'amission," Dean said, barely leaving off the 'duh'. "Do you gotta fix it?"

"Yep," Bobby said. "Gotta put in a whole new transmission. And new brakes. And it needs new tires."

"It's a lot broke," Dean observed and Bobby wondered if he was imagining the trace of sadness in the six-year-old's words.

"Yeah," Bobby admitted, wiping at the sweat running down from the underneath his cap. It was chilly out but he had been going at it hard for over an hour. "But I'll fix it up." He watched Dean watch the car.

"Dean, would you like to help me with the car? Just until your Daddy gets back," he added quickly. "I sure could use a hand, someone to hand me the tools. My knees are bad, ya know." He was sure the boy would say yes. This was the longest something had held Dean's attention since staying at Bobby's. He was a restless soul, constantly moving from room to room, hands always reaching out to touch what they shouldn't.

"No," Dean said and his eyes were off the car and back on Sam. The toddler had abandoned his toys and was now trying to wrestle off his jacket. "I'll just mess it up."

"Nah," Bobby said. "Cars are pretty hard to mess up. They always tell you if you done something wrong."

"No," Dean repeated, taking a step away. His hands were balled into fists and there were red patches on his cheeks that didn't come from the cold. The boy was embarrassed, ashamed. Bobby cursed John Winchester. Kids just didn't walk around thinking they were bad at things; adults told them so. But Bobby backed off. The last thing he wanted was to have Dean shut off again. It still happened: times when the boy's mood was so low or foul that he locked himself the bathroom and screamed at Bobby. Or cried. He was a whirlwind of emotion and Bobby ached for him.

"Yer brother is getting pretty dirty," Bobby said, nodding to where Sam had fallen sideways into a patch of mud. His jacket dangled from one arm. Dean visibly relaxed. "I reckon it's bathtime," Bobby continued, trying not to be upset when he went to grab Dean's hand and the boy pulled it away, stepping out of reach. Sam began to cry.

"Dee!" he screeched. "Dee!" Dean darted away from Bobby, toward his brother.

Bathtime with Sam was fun.

"Hot," he said as Bobby turned on the water. He had made both boys strip in the kitchen as not to track mud on the carpet. He didn't need one extra thing to clean up around the house.

"Warm," Bobby corrected. Sam leaned his naked body over the edge of the tub, almost toppling in. His fingertips touched water.

"Hot," he confirmed. The hazel eyes turned on Bobby hopefully. "Cookie?"

"After your bath," Bobby said. Half of the wall opposite the tub was made up of floor to ceiling mirror and Dean was staring at himself, poking at a bruise on his thigh. His eyes were distant.

"In you go," Bobby said, helping Sam into the tub. The toddler sat with a splash and giggled at Bobby's mock indignant expression. The Hunter took off his flannel and tossed it aside. When bathing Sam, it was always better to wear as little clothing as possible. "Dean? Let's go. Bathtime." Dean stared at himself for a moment longer and then slipped in beside his brother. A moment later, he was the smiling boy Bobby had grown to love, splashing his brother and playing with the few toys that were waterproof enough to be submerged. The boy in the mirror had vanished.

"Bye-bye," Sam said as Bobby washed the mud off him. Sam waved his hand at the swirling brown water. "Bye bye dirty Sammy." It was only in the past week that Sam had started speaking in three or four word sentences. His new favorite thing was to refer to himself in the third person. Bobby thought it was adorable.

"That's right," Bobby laughed. "One clean Sammy coming right up."

"Dirty Dee," Sam said, taking another washcloth and slopping it across Dean's dirty legs. "Bye-bye."

"Bye-bye," Dean repeated dutifully. Sam sent a humongous wave over the side of the tub, soaking the floor and Bobby's knees.

"Whoa there," Bobby said. "That ain't cool, Sam my man." Sam giggled.

"Uh-oh," he said. "Sammy uh-oh."

"We gotta keep the water in the tub," Bobby said. "That's the rule. Okay, who's ready for some shampoo?"

By the time Bobby had washed, dried, and clothed Sam, the toddler was blinking sleep from his eyes. He wasn't on a regular nap schedule but Bobby figured playing outside had tired him out. Even Dean was more sluggish than usual. Bobby carried Sam from the bathroom to the bedroom, letting the little boy rest his cheek on Bobby's shoulder, his damp hair pressed against Bobby's neck, smelling like the mango shampoo Dean had picked out at the supermarket.

Dean watched from the floor as Sam snuggled under a blanket.

"Story?" Sam said, interrupting his question with a yawn.

"Say please," Dean instructed, setting to work building a tower with his blocks.

"Please," Sam said.

"Just one," Bobby said. He picked the top book off the meager stack on the bedside table and kicked off his shoes before crawling onto the bed next to Sam. He hardly considered himself old, but boy, it felt good to stretch his back out, get off his feet for a while. Sam curled up at his side and pointed at the book.

"A'bet," he said.

"Yes," Bobby said, recognizing the word only because Sam had forced him to read this book—and all the others—about ten times a day since Martha Mills had given it to them. "Alphabet."

"A is for apple," he began.

"Yum!" Sam said broke in.

"Shhh," Dean said. He had a block in his hand but was standing next to the bed. Bobby held his breath as the boy climbed up on the other side of him, keeping distance between them but coming close enough that he could see the pages.

"B is for bumblebee. Buuzzzzz." He reached over and tickled Sam who giggled.

"C is cat."

By the time they got to "P is for pie," Dean had crawled closer, his head almost resting on Bobby's shoulder.

By the time they got to "V is for violin", both boys were asleep, their soft breaths making the pages flutter between Bobby's fingers.

The Hunter kept going, making it all the way to "Z is for zebra" before finally closing the back cover. He could have moved, could have snuck out of the room and left them sleeping with each other. But it was easier, he thought, pulling the blanket over the three of them, to sometimes stay close to them. Bobby was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

* * *

 **A/N:** Let me know what you thought and if I should do more before John comes back. Feel free to leave suggestions!


	7. Chapter 7

As week six with the boys ended, the South Dakota summer came in full force. It was unusual, this warm heat coming so early in the season, melting the last remaining snow in under an hour then drying out the puddles left behind. Bobby started opening the windows around the house which did little to dispel the humidity but a lot to stir the copious amounts of dust in the air.

It turned out Sam had allergies. He would wake up in the middle of the night, eyes and nose streaming. The first time it happened, Dean had been frantic. He'd burst into Bobby's bedroom around midnight and shaken the Hunter awake.

"Uncle Bobby, wake up! Wake! Up!" Bobby was up before Dean could get all the words out. The heat hung around him like vapor as his bare feet hit the hardwood. Dean was dressed only in a pair of white underwear, his skin sticky with sweat.

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked, turning on the bedside lamp.

"Sam!" Dean gasped out, tugging on Bobby's wrist with both hands. "He's dying!" Bobby swung Dean up into his arms in a well practiced maneuver so the boy was sitting on his hips. Once he had Dean secure, he reached for the silver knife under his pillow.

"Hurry," Dean whispered into his ear. As soon as Bobby stepped into the hallway, he could make out the sound of Sam's high pitched whine interspersed with choking sobs. What he found was not anything of the supernatural sort, no werewolf or vampire looming over the toddler, but a crying Sam sitting up in bed. At first, Bobby couldn't understand what was wrong. There was no blood on the boy or on the bed. He dropped Dean onto the bed beside his brother and flicked on the overhead light.

Sam's eyes were swollen almost completely shut and snot was running down his nose and into his mouth.

"Balls," Bobby cursed under his breath, letting the mattress sink under his weight as he sat down beside the boys. Sam seemed frozen in place, hands curled into fists that clutched at the blankets.

"Is he dying?" Dean asked. His face was turned not toward his brother but tilted up at Bobby, a look somewhere between desperation and reverence shining out. Bobby heard the question for what is was:

 _Can you save him?_

It was the first but not the last time that Dean Winchester would look at him like that. When he was fourteen, he would call Bobby about an injured Sam while John was out on a hunt. A compound fracture to the leg from falling off his skateboard while Dean wasn't looking. When Dean was seventeen, he would call in the middle of the night, the same sense of urgency flooding through telephone on the other end. Bobby would calmly look up directions to the nearest hospital with his own heart thudding under the St. Christopher medal Sam had gotten him for Christmas the year before.

Dean would call after the terrible car accident, the one that should have taken his life but hadn't. The one where John Winchester disappeared from the boys' lives altogether. Dean would dial the phone while Sam was in the shower, in the gas station, hustling pool. He would breathe into the phone and Bobby would utter placating words to the mistrustful six year old who still lived deep in Dean.

"He ain't dying," Bobby said and Dean's eyes said he believed the Hunter. Bobby gently took Sam's hands in his own and hauled the crying toddler onto his lap, feeling wetness sink into his sleep shorts. A quick inspection of the sheets confirmed his suspicion: Sam had wet the bed again.

Dean stuck as close as possible to Bobby's heels as the group traversed down the hall to the bathroom.

"It's okay," Bobby murmured over and over to Sam as he started the bathwater. Without being told, Dean slid off his own underwear and into the tepid water, waiting for Bobby to hand over Sam. The older boy held the younger as Bobby ran a cool washcloth over his face. At first, Sam pushed it away.

"No!" he wailed. "Nonononono." The top lids of his eyes had swollen to three times their size and Bobby could see gunk into between the delicate eyelashes, gathering in the corners. Sam turned his his head into Dean's chest.

"Sammy," Dean crooned. "Sammy, it's okay. You're just sick, that's all." Sam started to cry again but Bobby could hear the exhaustion behind the tears. "You gotta let Uncle Bobby help. He'll make you all better." Dean's gaze dared Bobby to contradict him. Sam sniffled.

"Boo?"

"Yeah," Dean said, still in the same melodic tone. "All better."

It was almost too easy then. Dean held tight onto his brother as Bobby washed him, scraping at the crusty snot under his nose just so more could come flooding out. The cool water seemed to help Sam's eyes and by the end of the bath, he could squint out of them though the whites of his eyes were streaked with red.

He cried again in discomfort as Bobby dressed him; Dean knelt over his brother, tucking the same lock of hair behind his ear again and again. In the end, Bobby didn't have the heart to leave Sam in bed and picked him up, cradling the small body in his strong arms. Though they were both eating well, Sam was still so tiny. It felt like holding a porcelain figurine, or a baby bird. Something breakable.

Dean followed them downstairs, holding onto Bobby's hand in his sleepiness and curled up on the couch as Bobby paced the downstairs with a squirming Sam.

"You just gotta sleep," Bobby said near two in the morning. Dean was passed out on the couch and Bobby was making a pot of coffee despite the hour. Sam was crying on and off, sucking on a cold washcloth in his quiet moments. He was sweaty again in no time and Bobby took him on the back deck, let him cling to his legs as Bobby sipped coffee in the dark.

"Boo?"

"That's me," Bobby agreed. "You sleepy yet?"

"No tired," Sam said sinking to his butt and reaching for a tie-dye bouncy ball that Dean had begged for in the supermarket. Bobby batted the boy's hands away when they went to rub his eyes.

"No," Bobby said. Sam's head swung around as an owl hooted somewhere from beyond the scrapyard boundaries. Half moon crescents dug into Bobby's calf as Sam scooted closer, the ball rolling away and bouncing down the deck steps. It disappeared into the night.

"Just an owl, Sam my man." There was a moment when Sam and Bobby met eyes, a moment where Bobby could practically see the long-legged fierce Hunter the toddler would grow into. Sam's face was uncharacteristically blank, a slate for Bobby to wish for things that would never be. A normal life for the Winchester brothers. A long life for the Winchester brothers. A good life, at the very least.

Then Sam reached up to tug at his left ear and the sobbing started all over again.

xxx

It was close to four in the morning by the time Bobby made the decision to call Carolyn. After the silent moment on the deck, he had been crying almost nonstop despite Bobby's numerous pleas.

Dean had woken up around three, reaching for his brother, trying to snuggle him into complacency. Sam wanted nothing to do with it or with his brother, the first of very few instances Bobby would witness like this. Dean seemed shocked too.

"Sammy? Sam, come here." But Sam curled into a ball on the floor until Bobby picked him up again and draped him over his shoulder.

Sam was chewing through a wet washcloth when Bobby made the call. The two were pacing around the dining room because Sam refused to be set down. Rummy glared at them from his bed near the woodstove.

"Oh hush, you big grump," Bobby scolded him as Carolyn's line rang. Rummy licked his lips and went to lie next to Dean on the couch.

"Hello?"

"Carolyn, it's Bobby Singer here."

"What's wrong?"

"How do you know something's wrong? Maybe I'm calling to have a chat." An exhausted snort came through the line.

"Bobby, in all the years I've known you, you've never called for a chat. And it's four am."

"It's Sam," Bobby said, shifting the toddler to his other arm. Sam whimpered and threw the washcloth on the floor. It clung to dirt and dog hair and cookie crumbs.

"The little one?"

"Yeah, he's been crying on and off since midnight. Has some wicked allergies, I think."

"Did you give him any Benedryl?" Bobby's heart sank. Why hadn't he thought of that?

"N-no. I've been washing his eyes and nose out, but haven't given him any meds." How stupid he was, not to realize that he could have eased Sam's suffering hours ago.

"I'll be right over."

"Nah, you don't have to-,"

"I'll be right over," Carolyn repeated. "I have meds with me. I have to be at the hospital in an hour anywhere. My alarm was about to go off." Bobby could tell she was lying but as Sam laid his forehead against Bobby's shoulder, he was grateful.

He opened the door before she could hit the front step.

"He just fell asleep," Bobby whispered as she crossed the threshold. Carolyn couldn't help herself; she swept a hand through Sam's hair, frowning as he coughed against Bobby's chest. "It's been near four and a half hours since he woke," Bobby said. "Do ya think I should take him in? Should I call for an ambulance."

Carolyn smirked just a little.

"Look at you, Papa Bear," she teased, setting her bag down on the kitchen table. "You're adorable when you're worried." Bobby started to protest but just let a red blush cover his cheeks instead. "Coffee?" Carolyn asked hopefully and Bobby brought her a cup, the steam curling into the air.

"It's gonna be near 100 later today," she said. "How are the boys holding up in the heat?"

"Just fine," Bobby said. "Sweatier and smellier than usual but that's alright. We're doing alright."

"Kids love sprinklers," Carolyn commented. "It's good sprinkler weather."

"Mmm," Bobby said noncommitedly. Sam's hair was sticking to his forehead; the morning heat was creeping in.

"I brought Children's Benedryl," Carolyn said, keeping one hand wrapped around her coffee as she dug through her bag. She pulled out a bottle of purple liquid and a dropper. She put a hand on Sam's small knee and shook gently.

"Sam? Sam, can you wake up?" The hazel eyes blinked open and instinctively curled tighter into Bobby in the presence of a stranger. His lips turned down.

"It's okay," Bobby said. "Carolyn brought you special medicine."

"It's yummy," she said. "Do you like grape-flavor?" Sam's eyes narrowed and he reached up to pull at his ear again. Carolyn watched closely. "Sam, does your ear hurt?" When he didn't answer, she glanced up at Bobby. "Ear infections can get nasty in toddlers. It could be what's bothering him so much." She nudged the bottle of Benedryl at Bobby.

"One tablespoon," she said.

"I can't do that," Bobby said.

"Of course you can. He's gonna need it at least twice a day for a while. I'm not running over here every time."

"What if I mess up?" Carolyn rolled her eyes. Bobby was acting just like every other brand-new parent she saw in the hospital. The sooner he got it through his head that children weren't breakable, the better.

"You won't. Worst that will happen is that he'll spit it out." She stood up and stretched, already her feet were sweating in their sneakers. She opened the door and quickly shut it again. "It must be nearly 80 already," she complained. Bobby was eyeing the bottle of Benadryl as though it was a rattlesnake. She was about to make another remark but then she saw him take a deep breath and reach for it. He withdrew one tablespoon into the dropper and cringed when Sam turned his face away.

"Should I try it first?" Bobby asked after a moment, his voice softer than Carolyn had ever heard it. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye as Bobby pinched a drop of purple onto his tongue and smacked his lips. "This is so good," Bobby said. "Almost as good as a chocolate chip brownie. Too bad you don't want any."

"Want!" Sam said, pulling at the hand that held the dropper. "Sam want!"

"I don't know," Bobby said, shrugging.

"Pwease," Sam said, throwing his arms around Bobby's neck. He had learned recently that if he offered Bobby a hug, he was much more likely to get what he wanted.

"I guess," Bobby said. "Open up." Sam did as he was told and Bobby squirted the dropper into his mouth. "Don't spit it out," he warned. But Sam just swallowed and then gave Carolyn a shy smile as if to say _look what a good boy I am._

The effect of the meds was clear within ten minutes. Sam dropped off to sleep in Bobby's lap, head lolling backwards in total unconsciousness.

"Definitely the start of an ear infection," Carolyn said when she got close enough to check Sam's left ear. "I'll leave you with some low dose antibiotics that should clear it up soon. If he's not better in forty-eight hours, give me a call."

"Thank you," Bobby said as he settled Sam next on the couch next to Dean.

"How's Dean doing?" Carolyn asked, nursing the last of her coffee.

"He's alright," Bobby said. "We have our troubles here and there, but he's a good kid. They both are."

"Any idea when their father is coming back?" Bobby's lips thinned as he shook his head. Rummy came to nudge his owner's hand and Bobby complied, scratching the Rottweiler as he gazed at his young charges.

"No."

"Do you want him to?"

Bobby looked at her sharply enough to make Carolyn hold up a hand in defense.

"Of course I do. They ain't my kids, Caro. I can't—I'm not—," he broke off.

"You're a natural," Carolyn said as she set down her coffee cup. Dean sighed in his sleep and Bobby's heart turned over.

"They aren't mine," he repeated.

"I know," she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the door to leave. "Call me and let me know how Sam is doing. I'll have my phone on me all day."

"Thanks again. I appreciate it."

Bobby locked the front door and moved back into the living room, almost collapsing into the recliner next to the boys. Before he shut his eyes, he couldn't help the traitorous thought that slipped through his mind:

 _They aren't mine but I wish they were._

* * *

 **A/N:** Just a little drabble that I thought you might like. I'm toying with the idea of a camping/Rufus/Hunt scenario but I'm still working through it. Hope everyone is having a good summer!


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